Truth or Dare
by Kritikos
Summary: Two years after escaping Vash, Millions Knives has licked his wounds and is ready to play again. Suddenly, Vash is thrust into a dangerous game with stakes so high that to lose is out of the question...eventual KMV
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the prologue to the sequel of "Wanted", about a month early. What can I say? There isn't much else to do over summer vacation. I know it's not very interesting_yet_, but that should change around the fourth or fifth chapter. _Please _stick it out... I should also mention that this fic will be a KMV eventually.  
Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun, or any of the characters.

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Knives turned stiffly in the bed and propped himself up on one arm, his gaze wandering to the large window. Rich afternoon sunlight filtered through it, throwing an amber glow over the walls and floor. There was a single tree outside the window; Vash had put it there so Knives could see it. The window was Knives' only view of the outside world.

A hot wind rushed through the boughs of the tree, the rustling of the leaves like a susurrus on the breeze. In the kitchen, the Plant could hear sounds of chatter and laughter, and the milky, spiced smell of simmering chowder. Everything about the setting was tranquil. But Knives' blood was singing in his ears, and his chest ached with undying hatred for his brother. He turned his eyes from the window to his hand.

He flexed the fingers of his hand, tested the pain in his arm. Less. Everyday there was less pain. It was almost time. He would make Gunsmoke his Eden, and he alone would be its god.

Knives let himself fall back into the bed, grimacing as the movement jolted his bullet-riddled body. He heard a heavy footfall outside his door, and immediately twisted toward the wall. He couldn't face him yet: Vash. His twin.

The battered faux-wood door creaked open, the hinges groaning in protest. Every day, his twin visited him, and every day that damn hinge creaked. Knives' hand began to cramp, and he realized it had tightened involuntarily, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm. His breathing was coming hard and fast, sweat trembling at his brow.

"Knives," said Vash softly. Knives clenched his jaw until it ached and a metallic ring echoed in his ears. He welcomed the anger, allowed it fester in his soul.

Millions Knives felt the mattress depress as Vash settled on it. The two brothers sat in silence. Vash stared at Knives' tree. His twin's icy blue eyes were fixed in a hardened glare on the blank wall. Knives closed his eyes, fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to choke the life out of his pathetic twin.

"Knives...," Vash said again, even more gently. "Please." Knives' eyes never flickered, but inwardly he felt the faintest thread of surprise at the depth of the pain and longing in Vash's voice. He waited for Vash to continue, but the golden-haired man simply sighed and stood.

"I don't understand you, Knives." Vash said quietly before he left.

Knives listened to the hollow tread of his brother's foot, listened to the door squeak open, then shut gently as the gunman left. Gently; everything that human-loving son-of-a-bitch did was gentle. Knives hated the way his brother said his name. He hated the pain in Vash's voice when he begged him to eat. He hated the sound of his twin's sobs.

Knives sat up gingerly, swinging his feet to the ground. His nostrils flared with pain, but still he tenderly placed one foot on the tiled floor, gasping as pain shot up and down his entire body, making him go rigid. He waited a moment for the agony to subside. Two minutes quickly became five. Then ten, then twenty. At last, the burning faded enough for him to stand.

Heaving with effort, his brow creased in pain, Knives leaned against the wall and clutched his shoulder. Vash would suffer as he had suffered. Oh, yes, Vash would suffer. Consoling himself with this thought, he shuffled forward, rummaging around in the battered desk that had been shoved against the far wall. _Where is it, dear brother? _He wondered. His sibling–his gun. It wasn't in the desk or the closet. Vash didn't trust him still.

"Clever brother," he managed to grunt, his voice quivering with pain. "I'll have to...have to leave without it."

He staggered to the open window and his eyes softened for a moment as they lighted on the tree. Then he hoisted himself onto the windowsill, crying out from exertion. There was sudden silence in the kitchen, then the scrape of a chair against floor. He had to hurry now–not much time left. Knives ground his teeth together until the muscles in his neck bulged like steel cords. Then he threw himself from the windowsill.

Knives vision blacked out momentarily, then returned. He felt numb, as though he were swimming, and darkness hovered around the edges of his vision. The squeak of the hinges opening to his room sounded from above, then a choked cry of surprise. Millions Knives smiled, his icy eyes blue eyes deepening.

He couldn't finish his escape–he needed a place to hide for now. Knives cast about, his eyes settling on a well. He stumbled closer, clutching at the slick stone lip. He leaned over cautiously: moss-covered stone walls descended into darkness. He scooped up a fistful of sand and dropped it in, straining to hear. There was a quiet _plink_ as the coarse sand hit water. It would have to do. He perched on the stone, heart thumping. This was going to hurt.

Behind him, he could hear a commotion as his brother flew haphazardly out of the house. Well, there was nothing for it. Knives flung himself forward, into the abyss. He landed in the icy cold water of the well, crashing below the surface. He was frozen in pain and shock, the light of sunset far above him. He tried to move his arm, and was met with a wave of agony. Knives felt his lungs burning with exertion. He was growing dizzy. His mind was screaming at him to breathe; he opened his mouth, sucked in only water. Choking, Knives was struck with the shocking realization that he was about to die.

Suddenly his eyes narrowed. He was _not _going to die. He needed to live–to make Vash suffer. Knives struggled, clawing forward feebly. He felt his feet brush the bottom of the well and kicked savagely, forcing himself up. He struggled, thrashing his arms and legs, slowly, slowly moving upward. He felt himself beginning to weaken and doubled his efforts. The image of his brother kept him moving despite the fatigue and anguish. There was a screaming in his ears; he wasn't going to make it. His arms flung out, grappling at nothing, his hands clutching spasmodically. Dimly, he felt his hand close around something and he pulled himself toward it. He broke the surface, coughing up water. He was clinging tightly to something–the well bucket. Knives paused for a moment, body racked with heaves, water dripping from his clammy skin. He willed his other arm to move, but it felt like lead. Painstakingly, Knives pulled his body–clothes doubly heavy with water–from the well and into the bucket. He lay there, listening to the drip, drip, drip of water from his soaked shirt into the pit below. His arms and legs dangled awkwardly from the pail. Overhead, he could hear the sounds of scuffling feet, shouts and cries. But he was safe...for now. The sky had darkened; eve was falling. The desert night dawned harsh and frigid. Bitter cold bit at Knives' wet skin. Miserable, frozen, and shaking, Knives stammered through blue lips: "I w-will crush you, Va-Vash. I'll crush you." Knives let his numb hand slacken around the bucket. His eyelids fluttered shut, and he dreamt.


	2. The Challenge

A/N: Marie Ward: Great to see you back, Marie! Only two people have reviewed, so I can't thank you enough. Hope you enjoy this chapter--I wrote it just for you and Peridot.  
Peridot3783: Haha...thanks! The pace really picks up in this chapter and---with luck---I'll be able to create some suspense. I can't tell you how relieved I am that you relieved: you were the first first reviewer. At any rate, 'Truth or Dare' doesn't seem to be off to a very good start.

Disclaimer: No, I _still_ don't own Trigun

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—_two years later— _

Sand. It yawned onward toward the horizon, the normally white-gold grains dyed red in the glow of the sunset. The wind stirred the dust, nudging it lazily, eddying over the dead, barren wasteland of sand. Dust devils purled half-heartedly, chased by the desert breeze, scattering against the red limestone with a solid, scritchy sound. The sky was an exotic shade of heather, darkening toward blue in the east. East, where the crowns of the opaline moons were edging over the skyline.

A zephyr ruffled Vash's hair, passed across his cheek like a feathery kiss. The air was redolent of cacti blossoms and dew, just chilly enough to make Vash draw his thin cotton shirt tighter around him. The gunman drummed his fingers against the arm of the teak rocking chair, his gaze lost in the desert landscape.

He shifted his weight, the old wood of the chair groaning beneath him. Vash slipped one calloused hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded note. The paper was old and yellowing, stained with water. There were deep crease lines in the sheet from months of being folded, unfolded, and refolded; the furrows were fraying and one edge had a small tear. Vash dutifully unfolded it, smoothing the sheet on his knee. His eyes roved over the corona typewriter script, though he had already memorized what it said:

_Vash,_

_Milly and I have left for December. I wanted to say thanks for everything. Whatever else you may be—a droopy-eyed, donut-scarfing, skirt-chasing hog-in-heat—you're a friend. I wouldn't trade my times as a 'disaster investigator' for anything._

_I need to leave this life behind, though. Maybe this is the only was to forget everything—Wolfwood, Knives, Legato...you. I don't want to remember anymore. I'm sorry._

_Please keep our secret between just us. I hope you'll forever think of me as_

_Your Friend,_

_Meryl Stryfe_

The letter was dated a year and a half ago. Vash read the paper again, hoping it would make more sense, hoping he could glean more information from it. Sighing in frustration, Vash folded the note and returned it to his pocket. He began to rock slowly, listening to the creak of the chair, the scraunch of the runner against the stone porch. The wind picked up speed, whistling through the canyons and ridges of the desert. There was a decidedly bitter bite to it as the breeze nipped through his hair, chilling him to the bone.

He stood and walked to the door, fingers curling around the iron door handle. Then he hesitated. What he needed was a shot of bourbon—to fight the chill of the desert night; to chase away the familiar, hollow ache in his chest. Vash turned away from the door and stepped off the porch, jamming his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. He walked quickly through the near-empty street and toward the nearest tavern, rolling his shoulders to work out the knots in his muscles.

At first, Vash arrowed straight past the pub, so intent on putting one foot in front of the other that he overshot the bar altogether. He backtracked, pushing past the swinging doors to the familiar sights and smells of Mac Callum's Pub. The cloying scent of smoke was thick in the air, and it hung like a fog over the dusky bar. Mac Callum's Pub was a decent place, Vash decided. The tiled floor—though old—was clean and swept. The glasses were mismatched, some with chips or hairline cracks, but never were they smudged or dirty. The counter was neatly washed; never sticky. Instead of taking a seat in the wicker chairs lined up by the bar, Vash wandered to the walls.

Mac had decorated the plain walls with framed newspaper clippings, photos, and old advertisements. Vash had never paid attention to them before; now he paused, looking at an aging photo of a little girl in an oversize cowboy hat and a sunflower dress, her neatly braided hair flung over her shoulders: Mac's daughter. The next document was a clipping from an old newspaper that read in screaming, 72-point font "THE HUMANOID TYPHOON STRIKES AGAIN." Vash quickly moved past it, his eyes settling on a crayon drawing done in a child's hand of a house with a tree and what looked like a thomas. He meandered around the room sometimes pausing for five and six minutes, sometimes passing the display without a glance. Finally he seated himself in a dim, smoke-filmed corner of the bar.

"The usual?" grunted the bartender brusquely.

"Yeah," said Vash. A radio was playing on a shelf—some sort of acoustic single. There was a low hum of conversation from the pub's frequenters, the clink of glasses and the sharp clacking of pool balls hitting together.

The bartender set a shot in front of the gunman, pouring out whiskey. Vash topped the drink off and thunked it down on the counter, licking his lips.

"So, have you heard the rumors?" The bartender asked languorously, pouring another shot of bourbon. Vash frowned.

"Rumors?" Vash asked distractedly, closing a hand around the shot. _Pace yourself_, he chided mentally.

The bartender leaned across the counter, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Folks are saying there are demons here in Byrnes."

Vash snorted. "Demons only exist in the hearts of men."

"What I heard," said the bartender defensively. "I hear there are men around..." He hesitated, casting around for the right words. "They just...aren't right somehow. Men who couldn't be men—who could only be demons."

"That right?"

The bartender grunted, then raised his voice. "Isn't that right, Rene?" Vash followed the bartender's stare to a haggard man sitting a few seats down. He was a tall, young man, but he seemed small as he hunched over his drink. Dark hair fell limply over his pale, sweating brow. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, like he hadn't slept in awhile and his hangdog features gave the impression that he was sulking. His clothes were hung too loosely on his scarecrow-like frame, rumpled and disheveled. Altogether, he looked more like a corpse than a man.

Rene tossed a glance at them; his rheumy eyes seemed to pass straight through Vash. "What's that?" He asked in a hollow voice, made husky by cigarettes.

"Tell 'em about them men—those demon-men."

Something sharpened in Rene's hazy eyes. His brooding features tightened into a grimace. "They aren't men," he said, taking a drag from a cigarette. He waited, closing his eyes as he blew out smoke. "They've sold their souls to Satan." The man stubbed out the fag in an ashtray.

Vash didn't know how to respond, so he raised the glass to his lips and tossed it back, squirming as the alcohol burned its way down his gullet. He breathed in deeply; the air smelled of tobacco and whiskey, under-laced with the faint unpleasant odor of sweat

Vash rotated the now-empty glass broodingly. He hadn't come to the tavern for a conversation; he just wanted a drink, for God's sake. What he didn't want was a conversation with some half-baked guy who probably hadn't been sober for years.

He raised his hand for the bartender, but the man's back was turned. Just as Vash opened his mouth to call for him, a high, bloodcurdling scream issued from the street. Sudden, tense silence descended on the pub. The conversations petered out until the only sound was the hushed music from the radio that drifted through the heavy air.

The scream picked up again, a low gibbering wail that echoed throughout the gulches and flumes that pockmarked Gunsmoke. Vash couldn't make out the words: they were ragged and imprecise. The wail degenerated into a low, keening sob.

Vash slid off the barstool and fairly flew out the door, barely registering when it banged shut behind him. His head whipped left, then right. He paused, waiting a beat, then raced left down the street. Houselights were beginning to flicker on and citizens were appearing in the windows.

Vash ran without thinking toward the sharp, piercing cry. But the sound reverberated in the streets until it seemed to come from every direction. Vash skidded to a halt, disoriented, waiting for the shriek to pick up again. An unnerving quiet fell over the little town. Vash waited, muscles tensed. His ears were thrumming with blood and he could feel adrenaline pumping through his veins. Silence, then: "_Oh, God, oh God! Please, no...NO! There was...blood. Everywhere, there was blood! And now he won't wake up...he...won't wake...up..."_

Vash was near enough to pick out the words. They were difficult to hear; the voice was pitched high with fear and interrupted by sobs. He raced down the labyrinthine streets that honeycombed throughout Byrnes, following the disembodied scream.

Glancing around wildly, he descried a white-clad figure. The figure stumbled as if in shock, then recovered. Something dark and thick stained the light-coloured clothing. Even from a distance, it was easy to identify the wet stain as blood.

Vash's lungs were beginning to ache from the cool, damp air and he slowed to a walk. A group had started to gather around the figure, buzzing with curiosity. Vash slipped through the crowd, and squeezed into the front, watching breathlessly as the sheriff walked forward, buckling his utility belt and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"You're going to have calm down and tell me what happened, miss," he said in a soft, patronizing voice, like a parent humoring an unreasonable child.

"He's dead..." whispered the white-clad figure—a small, wiry girl. The girl raised a quivering hand and wiped the sweat from her forehead, smearing blood on her face.

"Who is? Who's dead?"

"I don't know," the girl said, her voice wavering hysterically. "I don't know his name."

"What's _your_ name?" The sheriff continued in the same soothing, condescending voice. He was trying to calm her nerves, Vash realized. _Good luck with that,_ he thought wryly. The girl was shaken pretty badly.

The girl's white lips moved noiselessly.

"Pardon?" Asked the sheriff, edging forward.

"J-Joan," the girl stammered. "My name is Joan."

"Joan," said the Sheriff to himself. "Can you tell me what happened, Joan?"

The girl's eyes widened, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "I found him—dead. There was blood everywhere." Her voice quavered. "He was dead—I found him like that!" Joan's voice was rising in terror, and the sheriff reached out to touch her arm.

"Get away from me!" Cried the girl, knocking his arm away. She took an unsteady step backward. "There was blood everywhere," she repeated, her voice cracking. "And then that word..." She closed her eyes, a grimace set on her wraithlike face.

"What word?" Asked the sheriff, unable to follow.

Vash had to strain to catch her next words; her voice was quiet, but she said them harshly enough to make up for it. _"It was written in red on the wall."_

"Joan," the sheriff began in a reasonable voice.

"I'm not crazy: I _saw _it!" Joan screamed. "It said 'Knives'."

Vash felt his blood go cold. The sheriff was talking, but he couldn't seem to focus on what he was saying. '_Knives'_...Vash steadied himself against a building. He felt an burning in his lungs and realized that he was holding his breath. Blowing air out his cheeks, the gunman sat down hard on the packed-dirt road.

He'd been a fool to think that Knives would reform. After two years, Vash had finally begun to relax, to let his guard down. He thought he'd won the war: foolish. He could see now that Knives would never reform. "Why?" Vash said in a strained whisper, staring at his hands. "Why, Knives?" He repeated, his sight blurring as tears stung his eyes. He cradled his head in his arms, moaning softly.

He could hear the broken cries of Joan as she was led away by the sheriff. The rubberneckers slowly dwindled; they left in clumps, talking with their neighbors in low, rapid voices, strung with excitement. Finally, only Vash was left, still crumpled in the shadows of the building.

"It's those men," he heard a low, husky voice say in his ear. Vash looked up, bewildered.

Rene was standing with his hands tucked into his pockets, watching the scene unfold. Vash looked more closely at him, wondering who, exactly, this guy was. Everything about him hinted at melancholy, from the way his shoulders sloped dejectedly to his lidded eyes. "Those demon-men did this." He seemed to be talking to himself.

Something sparked in Vash's mind—a funny coincidence. The Gung-ho Guns had called themselves demons, hadn't they? Men who had allowed demons to take over.

He lurched to his feet and grabbed Rene's arm. Rene turned his bloodshot eyes on Vash, blinking calmly. "These men," Vash said. "How do I find them?"

"You don't," said the man softly.

Vash gripped his arm tighter. "Please!" He begged. "I need to find them!"

Moonlight made Rene's white skin glow pale blue as he regarded Vash with his hollow, dark-ringed eyes. "Don't worry," he said. "We're looking for you."

Vash's head jerked back as though he'd been slapped. "What?" Goosebumps pricked his skin, and he wondered if he'd heard right. _'We'?_

Rene looked outward; the sky had deepened into black; the moons were waxing in the sky. Scattered, steel-coloured clouds drifted lazily, haloed in the moonlight. The wind was blowing stronger now, cold and bitter. It whipped up the sand, and the grains stung Vash's face and arms, working their way through his clothes.

"Oh, we've been searching for you, Vash," Rene said again. The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Us demon-men. Us Gung-ho Guns."

Vash was frozen in shock. His mind was screaming at him to draw his gun, but he couldn't seem to move—he could only shake his head disbelievingly.

"No!" Vash shouted. "The Gun-ho Guns are dead," he whispered, cold sweat materializing on his brow.

"Not anymore," Rene said quietly.

There was a pause; neither spoke.

"'Truth or Dare'?" Asked Rene, breaking the silence first.

"What?" Whispered Vash.

Rene returned his gaze to Vash, his flat, dead eyes passing straight through the gunman. "'Truth or dare?" He repeated.

"I'm not playing a game," Vash cried, whisking his gun from its holster and aiming it steadily at Rene's heart.

"But you are." Rene's lifeless eyes gleamed briefly.

"I won't!" Vash choked out, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"The rules are simple. You can pick either 'truth' or 'dare'."

"I won't play." Vash repeated.

"That's your choice. Of course there will be consequences."

A cold finger traced its way up Vash's spine.

"That's right, Vash. You can refuse to answer the question; you can refuse to do the dare. But just like the child's game you'll have to face the 'consequences'." He smiled wistfully. "That's the beauty of the game. You have a choice. What'll it be, Vash? Truth? Or dare?"

"What if I shoot you?"

"Then you'll have to face the consequences."

Vash could barely force out his next words. "What are the consequences?"

"We will kill someone close to you each time you refuse to play. It could be anyone—Doc, Jessica...Meryl." Something akin to amusement flickered across his features.

Vash felt hot tears coursing down his cheek. _Truth? Or dare? _He couldn't choose truth. He couldn't allow Knives to know his deepest fears and secrets; he couldn't let his twin inside his head. "Dare," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The city of Byrnes is six hours away by car. Somewhere in Byrnes is a young woman. Her name is Taylor Kathan. In twelve hours, we will kill her. Stop us if you can..."

Rene turned on his heel, the tails of his loose shirt flapping behind him like a cape. Vash watched the Gung-ho Gun walk away, a sinking feeling settling in his gut. He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, Rene's words echoing in his mind. _"Stop us if you can..."_


	3. Close to Hell

A/N: If you are an insurance girls' fan, then hang in there. Meryl and Milly will play a significant role in this story, nd they're coming in around Chapter Five, I think. lotsa romance in store! Read it, tell me what you think. I love reviews :)  
Sinically Disturbed: Yes, Rene is cute, if you're into the whole cadaverous look. The chapter you were talking about was deleted from the story. Everyone should try reading Sinically Disturbed's story, by the way. It's fresh off the press!  
Marie Ward: Thanks so much! I'm glad I have you as a reviewer: you're great!  
Doctor Kiba: Thanks! I plan on giving it some kickers eventually. Hope you enjoy this chapter---it seems kinda "iffy" to me.  
ReadingWhiz89: Good, I was hoping it'd turn out better. It'll be much longer, too. I might even have to break "Truth or Dare" into two stories. Thanks for your review!  
Foxmagic: I'm glad you understand. Go KMV! Haha...thanks for reading and bothering to review. I hope you like this chappie.  
Aine of Knockaine: I hope so! This fic will have alot more romance in it. I hope you'll like it!  
Attention! I have a few deleted scenes from this story and Wanted. They're nothing big or important, but does anyone want me to post them somewhere where they can be read?

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_12 hours remaing_

A sick feeling knifed through Vash's gut. He realized he was playing the game—playing right into Knives' hands. His mind was reeling as he tried to sort out his thoughts. His actions came hesitant, slow; he was in shock. Vash stood, riveted to the spot, tears falling down his face and catching in his day-old beard. He watched the man walk away languidly, one pale, wraithlike hand fishing in his pocket for a cigarette.

Vash eyes followed Rene's narrow back until it disappeared, mixing with the shadows. Still he remained frozen, eyes fixed on the point where the Gung-ho Gun had disappeared. A low, excited buzzing met his ears. Unable to sleep, the denizens of the city had drifted into bars and restaurants: public places where they swapped rumors about the bizarre murder. Golden pools of light spilled onto the darkened streets.

Presently, Vash became aware of something else—something far more pressing: time. He could feel the seconds tick away; he could feel the minutes slipping by. He knew one thing: he needed to get to Byrnes. He needed to get there _now_. He started down the street, half walking, half jogging. His feet were oddly numb and he stumbled, catching himself before he fell and forcing himself back up. He eyed the shop signs as they flashed past. _Denise's Tailoring Services, The Stop 'n Shop Grocery Store, Confection Selection, Tiny Tot's Toy Store. _At last, he found what he was looking for: a large cement garage with an overhanging poster that read "Gunsmoke's Busing Service" in bright-coloured letters. Vash's hand shot forward eagerly, twisting the doorknob. The doorknob jingled ineffectively and Vash cursed. _Locked_.

He leaned back, studying the schedule on the door. The soonest bus destined for Byrnes left at six in the morning. He couldn't wait six hours. He gave the door a savage kick and turned away, running a hand through his hair. Vash cast around, his eyes landing on an old, beat-up pickup truck. The dull blue paint had faded and was peeling back over patches of rust. Vash approached the vehicle slowly, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. He tried the door handle, found it unlocked. With a brief prayer of thanks, he eased onto the cracked leather seats. He pulled the door closed behind him, taking a moment to compose himself in the small, suffocating darkness of the truck. Vash put one hand to the ceiling, groping for the light switch. He made a faint sweep, brushing his fingers along the cloth overhead. No light switch. "Oh, well," he sighed to himself. "I'll have to do without."

Vash felt for the ignition. It was empty. "Shit," he murmured, aware that he was wasting precious time. He needed the car keys. Vash opened to glove compartment, feeling around with one hand. No keys. Groaning, he ran his fingers underneath the seat, finding a sticky, half-eaten lollipop, discarded wrappers, and empty soda cans: still no keys. He'd have to hotwire it.

Vash pushed himself further up on the seat, planting his long legs on the console. He gave one, two, three strong kicks, feeling the old plastic weaken. He probed around the edges of the console, hooking his fingers inside the cracked surface and gave a sharp tug. The console gave a little. He sucked in a deep breath, wedging his fingers firmly in the crevasses and bracing his legs against the console. Then he pulled as hard as he could, muscles screaming. He felt a drops of sweat begin to form along his forehead despite the coolness of the night. Finally, with a groan, the console popped loose and Vash stared at the massive tangle of wires.

He sorted through the wires, inspecting the colour of each one under the faint light from the grill behind him. Yellow, green, blue...he needed to find the red one. He snatched up a thick wire and held it up to the light: red. "Yes!" He crowed, nearly dropping the wire. He quickly bit the cord in half, fishing around for the green one. Finding it, he twisted the metal tips of the two wires together tightly. He felt a flush of pride as the engine spluttered to life.

Putting the truck in gear, Vash backed out into the street. "Hey!" He heard a peevish voice call. "Hey, that's my truck! He's stealing my truck!" Vash stomped the gas pedal to the floor and shot forward with terrifying speed. The sudden roar of the engine quickly drowned out the man's cries as Vash pulled out into the cold, desert night, racing toward Byrnes.

Six hours later found Vash sore and exhausted. The twin shots of bourbon in his veins made him feel warm and vaguely fuzzy. He passed one hand over his weary face, accelerating. Byrnes was in sight now, lit by the pale gold strokes of early sunlight. Tall, gothic buildings, black in the faint morning light, towered over Vash as he passed through the city's outer wall. He was met with the scent of ammonia and hard liquor and quickly rolled up the truck's window, gagging.

The city was windswept; sand crusted every trash can and litter fluttered along the dusty roads. A frail, elderly bum huddled against a building, trembling underneath his thin rags. A wine bottle, wrapped in a paper bag, was clutched in one gnarled hand. Vash watched the old man with pity as he raised the bag to his lips and sipped the alcohol, a shudder passing through his body.

Built five decades ago, Byrnes had quickly earned the title "Sin City". Filled with lechers, thieves, and murderers, it was as close to hell as anyone could get. If Knives was anywhere, he was here.

Vash had no idea where to start. Somewhere in this hell-hole was a young woman named Taylor Kathan. She was marked for death; Vash had six hours left to find her. Vash pulled the car into an empty parking space and disconnected the red and green wires, feeling the engine shudder and die. He threw the door open and climbed out. Vash couldn't lock the doors: he had no keys. The truck would likely be stolen before noon.

Vash hesitated mid-step, his eyes wandering in awe over the tall, dark buildings of Sin City. Years of wind-driven sands had worried away at the edifices, cracking the mortar and pitting the brick. The shadows seemed longer in Byrnes, the bite in the air more fierce. There was something alien and hostile about the city that made Vash shudder. He forced himself forward, keeping his eyes on the dusty crowned streets.

Vash's eyes flicked left and right, resting on the signs to business stores and restaurants. If he could only find a police station, they might help him. They could get him the information he needed. He felt a growing sense of unease with each passing minute and unconsciously quickened his step until he was fairly running down the avenue. Vash knew Byrnes was large. He'd never stumble across an information center or a police station this way. The heat of the rising sun against his back seemed to mock him, reminding him of the time slipping by.

"Miss," Vash called to a passer-by. "Miss!" He called again, louder, when she didn't seem to hear him. She kept her head lowered, barreling past. Vash grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. "Please, can you tell me where to find—"

"Get your filthy hands off me," the woman hissed, sinking her fist into Vash's mouth. Vash let go in surprise, tasting blood. "Miss," he called after her pleadingly. "_Please!"_

Vash eyes fell on his reflection in a darkened storefront. He looked haggard and exhausted, his eyes lidded. There was a smear of blood around his mouth and he touched the lip tenderly, wincing. Vash's eyes looked past his reflection, falling on rows of alcohol. A liquor store. Suddenly, Vash's eyes sharpened and he took a step toward the store, and idea forming in his head. There was one way...

A schedule taped to the window announced that Bailey's Liquor Store would not open for an hour and forty-five minutes. _Perfect._

Vash slipped his piece out of the holster and cocked it. It wasn't as strong as the one Knives had given him: the one he'd buried in the desert. But it still had enough punch to take out a rabid thomas. Vash snapped the safety off and cocked the pistol, relaxing his arm to absorb the kick of the gun. He fired two rounds into the glass window front, the tinkle of shattering glass drowned out by gunfire.

There was a feminine scream from behind, some shouts of surprise and the scuffle of running feet. An alarm coughed and started to bleat, loud and shrill in the early air. Vash casually stepped into the store, tossing a look over his shoulder. He sauntered over the cash register and began to toy with it, listening. He could still hear some cries of outrage and shock, the piercing scream of the alarm. And fainter, in the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens. Vash's lips curved into a smile. _Perfect_, he thought again.

* * *

For the eleventh time that day, Deputy William Brock III made up his mind to quit.

Yes, he was going to quit this worthless dead-end job, go to college somewhere, and live a nice happy life. He hated his life at the 8th police precinct; he hated being called "rookie", and "you, there"; he hated his crummy metal desk. Hell, he hated Byrnes itself. There was something..._wrong _with Byrnes. Everything in "Sin City" was decaying from the inside out: the buildings, the streets, the people.

This is what Brock was telling himself as he hesitated in front of the sheriff's door. He looked around nervously, smoothed his tie, and knocked tentatively. Silence. "Sir?" Called Brock, knocking harder.

This time, he was rewarded with the sheriff's low, rumbling voice: "Come in."

_This is it,_ thought Brock to himself. _Tell him you're quitting. It's now or never. _Brock opened the door and stepped inside, squaring his shoulders. The sheriff's office was large and bright. The walls were fraught with gleaming plaques and certificates, the occasional photograph. Brock had always enjoyed being in the sheriff's office; now it seemed like a battle ground to him.

The sheriff was sitting behind a well-polished mahogany desk, shuffling through paperwork. He looked up at Brock expectantly, his careworn face breaking into a smile. "Ah, Deputy Brock. Just the man I was looking for."

Brock ran over his prepared speech in his mind. "Sir, I—"

"We have a robbery on Main St., Deputy. I want _you _to handle it." He sat back, beaming, as though he'd just given Brock the greatest gift on Gunsmoke instead of another lousy assignment.

"But sir, I—"

"I know you've only been here six months, but your father and grandfather were both deputies, Brock. It runs in your blood. You're going to do fine."

Brock's mind was screaming at him to decline, to walk right out of there. But somehow he couldn't. After all, the sheriff was right: William Brock I and William Brock II had both been law enforcers. "Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."

"Good!" The sheriff clasped his hands together. "Go knock 'em dead, Brock."

"Yes, sir."

Brock put the cruiser in park, leaving the sirens and lightbar flashers on. He could see the crime scene just ahead: the big glass storefront of Bailey's Liquor Store had been smashed in. The sun glinted off a thousand shards that littered the streets and an alarm blatted loudly; Brock sighed. What a mess.

He got out of the car, readjusting his duty belt with a jangle. He was the only law enforcement officer on the site—which was usual. The police were so spread thin in Byrnes, it wasn't funny. The city was overcome with crime.

Brock un-holstered his gun, advancing toward the store. Though the robber was probably gone, it didn't hurt to exercise caution. He crept forward, picking his way through the shattered glass and bullet casings. There was a sudden movement inside the store, black against black, and Brock froze. Could the robber still be in there?

He checked his piece to make sure it was loaded and took a step forward, eyes darting over the darkened shop. It looked empty. Maybe it was just his imagination. Brock ducked inside, sweeping his pistol left, then right. All clear. He relaxed his arm, looking around. It was much cooler inside the liquor store; though the sun had barely risen, Brock could already see heat waves rising off the roof of his car. There was a faint, musty odor in the shop—not unpleasant, though. Brock began to run down a list of chores in his mind: _turn off the alarm; take an inventory; notify the owner. _He scanned the room for an alarm switch. None.

Brock made a quick circle around the store, eying light switches and fans. Still no alarm switch. He returned to the shattered window and frowned, rotating to take in his surroundings. Bailey's Liquor Store was comfortable-sized, a little dingy. Yellowing tiled floors, rutted and marked with rust, spread beneath the seven or so aisles. The shelves were cockeyed and bowed beneath countless bottles of alcohol. In one corner was an old, scarred counter and a plastic cash register. Brock walked over to the counter and crouched behind it. There! A red button labeled "ALARMS" was stationed on the faux-wood paneling. Brock jabbed the button and the bleat of the alarm bells stopped.

"Thank God," Brock mumbled, scratching his chin. Then he heard the scuff of a shoe against the outdated floors. He shot to his feet looking around. There was only darkness. This time, Brock wasn't fooled. There was someone in here with him—someone dangerous. The perp had had plenty of chances to slip out of the store unnoticed, but he'd stayed. He was playing cat and mouse.

Brock felt a chill trace its way up his spine. Slowly, he raised his gun. "Who's there?" He called, speaking loudly to cover the tremor in his voice. The sound of his own, unsteady breathing was the only noise in the dark shop. He held his breath, waiting for a reply. One second passed, two...it was only then that Brock realized that he could still hear breathing—just not his own. He exhaled loudly. "I'm gonna give you to the count of three!" He shouted. "One!" No movement. He snapped the safety off on his gun. "Two!" Still no reply. He cocked the pistol. "THREE!"

A tall blond man stepped forward, dim light slanting across his handsome features. Brock had to admit, this guy didn't look like a robber. He was lanky, with tightly corded musculature stretching over his broad chest. He wore a loose white dress shirt and black slacks—not the average thief's garb. But there was an loaded holster at his waist and a haunted look in his eyes that told Brock this was their guy.

"What's your name?" Brock asked sharply.

When the man spoke, it was in a low, composed voice. "Vash."

Brock barked a short laugh of disbelief. "Vash—_the _Vash?"

"Vash" didn't reply. The man's collected, quiet demeanor was unnerving. "Okay, _Vash_, what were you doing in Bailey's Liquor Store?"

"I was robbing it," came the sotto reply.

Vash's face was so deadpan, his answer so blunt, that Brock almost dropped his gun in shock. The uneasy feeling was starting to return. There was something off-kilter about this man, the deputy decided.

"Don't move," Brock ordered, heart thumping in his chest. "I want you to put your hands on your head and turn around—slowly!"

The man put his scarred hands on his head, pivoting slowly. Brock pressed his gun against the man's head, cuffed him deftly. "Okay, sir, I'm gonna march you out to the cruiser. One false move and you get a bullet in the skull. Got it?"

The man nodded, then stopped when Brock's finger tightened on the trigger. "Yes," he said.

"Good," Brock said. He leaned forward and took Vash's gun out of his holster. "Now, move."

Deputy Brock walked the man to the cruiser, unlocking the back door and forcing him in. An overwhelming feeling of relief washed over him as he slammed the door shut. Brock slid into the front seat and shifted into drive, pulling away from the crime scene. He'd come back later, notify the owner. For now his priority was getting the perp to jail.

"I need your help."

Brock's eyebrows shot up in surprise; he hadn't expected the man to talk. "What's that?" He said, licking his lips nervously.

"I need your help," Vash said again, more urgently. "I need to find a woman—Taylor Kathan."

"Look, sir," Brock began. "I can't just—"

"Taylor Kathan," Vash repeated. "I need to find her before noon. They're going to kill her."

Brock felt an icy cold wash over him. "Who's going to kill her?"

"I don't know," came the frustrated reply.

"You expect me to believe that?"

"You _have _to, deputy. Otherwise it's blood on your hands."

Brock's heart was beating faster, his palms clammy. He forced a fake laugh out. "I don't beli—"

"PLEASE!" Vash thundered. His voice was so pained and desperate that Brock found himself half-believing him. "Please," he said, more quietly but no less pressingly. "She'll be dead by noon."

Brock looked at the clock: 6:13. "I—I'm sorry, sir. You have to go into general lockup. I can't change that."

Vash's face paled. "For how long?" He whispered.

Brock shrugged. "Could be as much as 48 hours."

Vash leaned forward, his cuffed hands clinking as he hooked his fingers in the wire mesh that separated the front and back seats. "I _can't _stay in there for 48 hours. I can't even stay in there for _one _hour!"

Brock pulled into the station, killing the engine. He was glad the ride was over. This guy gave him the heebie-jeebies. _Blood on your hands..._ He sighed, stepping into the hot sunshine. Brock unlocked the back door and gestured for the passenger to get out.

"I'll pay you a hundred thousand double dollars to free me and give me the location of Taylor Kathan."

Brock stopped in shock. This man was really desperate. "I'm not a crooked cop," he said coldly, forcing Vash into the police station.

The general lockup at Byrnes was a large, filthy place. The dank air stunk of vomit and cigarette smoke. Dim light filtered in through cobwebbed windows, and there was a thin layer of grime over every surface. Mumbled, incoherent sentences and low, cold voices echoed from further down the cell block. Deputy Brock unlocked a cell and gave Vash a gentle push.

The deputy moved to leave, then paused. "I'm sorry." He said. Vash's shoulder sagged and he remained, unmoving, in the center of the cell. Brock hesitated, waiting for Vash to say something. When there was no reply forthcoming, he locked the iron bars and left, a heavy feeling sitting in his stomach. "I have _got _to quit this job." He murmured to himself.

* * *

_Fifteen minutes remaining_

Vash lay on the thin, lumpy prison cot, listening to the traffic of detectives, prisoners, and deputies outside his cell. The man three cells down had started screaming about forty minutes ago, and he hadn't stopped yet. He rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the mattress.

Vash had no clock. He had no watch—no way to measure the time passing by. He couldn't tell for certain how long he'd been in general lockup. Judging by the light now filling his cell, it was nearly noon. _Nearly noon..._he had failed. He had failed Taylor Kathan.

_Knives...why? _Vash wondered despairingly. "Why!" He yelled, muffled by the frayed, ratty cot. He knew the answer, though. He had made Knives swallow his pride, and Knives would never forgive him for that.

Vash sat up, squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his head dejectedly against the damp stone wall.

"Vash?"

At first Vash thought he'd heard the voice in his head.

"Vash?" The voice persisted. Vash opened his eyes wearily. Deputy Brock was staring at him through the prison bars.

"Hmm?" Asked Vash.

"We're letting you out." There was a loud rattle of keys in a lock, then the iron door slid open. Vash struggled off the cot.

"What?"

"There was nothing missing from the store. Bailey's insurance will pay for the damages. You're free to go," the deputy elaborated. He waved a slip of paper, a hint of a smile on his face. "And I have something for you."

Vash took the paper hesitantly and read:

_Taylor Kathan_

_479 Diabolus Avenue_

He looked up at Brock, disbelieving. The deputy smiled.

"What time is it?" Vash asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The deputy checked his pocket watch. "A quarter of," he said.

"11:45?"

"Yeah."

Galvanized into action, Vash bolted from the cell. "Thanks, deputy!" He called over his shoulder, blowing past the prison guard and out of the jail. His heart was pounding wildly. Fifteen minutes...he had fifteen minutes until they killed the woman. He banged through the 8th Precinct's double doors, stumbling out into the hot, arid streets. He blinked twice, shielding his eyes from the suns. It seemed doubly bright after the dim, constricted cell. Vash glanced around wildly. There was a single car nosing along down the street. It hit a pothole, rattling loudly.

"Stop!" Vash shouted. "STOP! I need a ride!" The car slowed, brakes whining shrilly.

Vash raced to the car, banging on the driver's side window. "I need a ride to 479 Diabolus Avenue!" The driver rolled the window down slowly.

"What?" Asked the driver lazily.

"Please, I need a ride."

The man paused, as if deliberating.

"I'll pay you," Vash said impatiently.

"How much?" The man asked, more alert now.

"A hundred double dollars."

"Make it two hundred."

"Deal."

Vash climbed into the backseat. "479 Diabolus Avenue! I'll pay double if you get me there in under fifteen minutes."

The driver peeled out, accelerating, and banked left. He stomped on the gas and the vehicle lurched forward, engine screaming. The man took a sharp left, wheels squealing; the car fishtailed, corrected itself, and barreled forward, gaining speed and momentum. "Hold on tight!" The driver yelled as the car took another violent left and centrifugal force pinned Vash to the door. He shifted gears, pressed the brake and gas at the same time; the engine revved as the car swung around in a sharp ninety degree angle.

Vash stared out the window tensely, watching stores and signs streak past. He leaned his forehead against the window, breath fogging the glass. Vash tangled his fingers through his hair, checked his holster: empty. _Wait a minute...where's my gun? _Vash thought frantically. A sinking sensation settled in his abdomen. Deputy Brock had taken it. When he was arrested. "Damn!" Cried Vash, drawing the driver's attention. _I'll have to use the one Doc gave me_, he decided.

His heart was drumming in his chest and his palms were sweaty. Vash wiped his hands on his pants nervously. His body was strung with tension and he rapped his fingers on the dashboard anxiously. "Where are we?" He asked the driver in a strained voice.

"We're almost there," the driver said enigmatically.

Vash wiped perspiration from his pallet, shifting his weight. _It's _hot. _Freezing at night and scorching during the day. Damn, I hate the desert_, he thought. Gingerly, he turned his thoughts on Knives. For 130 years, humans had been Knives' whipping boy. They had become his scapegoat. And now Knives was sentencing them to death for crimes they hadn't committed.

The driver slowed, turning on Diabolus Avenue. "485," Vash counted the house numbers flash past. "483, 481, 479. There it is!"

479 Diabolus Avenue was a low, ranch-style house. Years of hard sun and wind-whipped sand had left the brick house potholed and worn. It was modest and unassuming; priggish, yet well cared-for.

Vash stuffed some bills into the drivers hand and scooted across the seat. He flung the car door open and stumbled out, not bothering to close it behind him. The gunman ran up the steps and turned the doorknob to the front door. It twisted far too easily in his hand and he looked down: the knob had been broken.

Vash bursted through the front door and found himself in the living room. The walls were wainscoted in a simple, country manner, hung with framed photos and ceramic signs that read "God bless this home". Two white, wicker chairs with Sioux-style cushions were the only furniture. Shelves set in the walls bore a few well-loved porcelain dolls, carefully displayed.

The room was empty.

Vash crossed the room, his long strides eating up the ground. He passed into the dining room, looked around: empty. Frantically, Vash darted into the long, low-slung kitchen. Still no one.

"Taylor!" Vash shouted. He paused, waiting for an answer. None came. Two doors led out of the kitchen: one led into a bedroom, the other into what looked like a sitting room. Vash started toward the bedroom; then a flash of metal caught his eye. He twisted around: a large butcher's knife was lying on the green-tiled counter. Vash crossed over to the counter, picked it up. The plastic handle felt cool in his hot hand. Now he was armed. He fixed his eyes on the bedroom and took a shuffling step forward, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

_One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand. _Vash counted the seconds as he moved toward the bedroom. He edged into the room, craning his head behind him to make sure he was alone. Vash's eyes traveled over the bare stucco walls, down to the terra cotta-tiled floors. A broken-in twin-size bed with wrought iron frames rested beneath the window.

Taylor Kathan was sleeping in the bed, her rust-coloured hair spilling in tangles over the muslin pillowcase. Vash dropped the knife and took a step toward her. Thank God. Thank God, he'd made it in time. Vash inhaled deeply, let out a weak chuckle. He turned to leave, and stifled a scream.

The name "Knives" was painted on the opposite wall in bright red paint, still fresh and dripping. Vash turned around hesitantly and crossed over to the bed. "Taylor," he said softly. "Taylor!" He repeated, more sharply, when there was no response.

Vash reached down to shake her, recoiled when his fingertips were met with something warm and viscous. He looked at his fingers, uncomprehending: they were tipped with blood. Vash ripped the quilt away, stumbling back in horror.

Taylor Kathan was dead.

Vash sank to his knees jerkily, clasping the dead woman's hand in his own. He leaned his head against the mattress, hot tears trailing down his face and soaking into the bed sheets.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her, squeezing his eyes shut. "God, I'm sorry."

"You were late," came a silky, sinister voice from the shadows. Vash whirled around, eyes wild. A well-muscled man leaned casually against the doorjamb. Vash watched as he stooped, picked up the blade Vash had dropped, and turned it over in his hands, watching the metal gleam.

A long, white scar ran from the man's hairline to his jaw, interrupting the smooth olive complexion of his skin. Leonine white hair framed his young face, tangled and mussed. It was his eyes, however, that struck Vash the most. They were silver, always flickering and alive. Staring at the man's eyes, Vash was reminded of a flame guttering in the wind. There was something predatory in the way the man moved that made him seem like a lion hunting his prey.

The man tossed the blade toward Vash's feet with a clatter. "You killed her?" Vash managed to choke out.

"Yes," came the smooth reply.

"Who are you?"

"I am Daemonicola the Lion, the second of the Gung-ho Guns."

Vash picked up the knife and stood slowly, his sorrow quickly spinning into rage. "You killed her!" He spat out. He took two uneven steps, then lunged at the man, sweeping the blade in an arc. The man sidestepped neatly out of the way. Vash was pale and sweating. He swayed unsteadily—he had gone 39 hours without eating, drinking, or sleeping.

Vash launched himself toward the man again, snatching at his shirt. He pressed the knife against Daemonicola's throat, breathing heavily. He almost didn't recognize his voice when he spoke. "Now it's your turn to die."

"You don't want to do that." Came the level reply. "You don't want to face the consequences."

Vash's hand shook slightly.

"That's right Vash. If you kill me tonight, one of your friends will die." He winced as Vash pressed the blade more firmly into his neck. "It's your choice."

Vash held the knife steady for a moment, then lowered it. The man smiled wide, his lips stretching over rows of polished teeth.

"I thought so. By the way, Vash—your brother sends a message."

Vash drew his shirtsleeve over his face, answering in a trembling voice: "What's that?"

Daemonicola straightened his shirt, wiped away a trickle of blood from his neck. He hadn't even broken into a sweat. Then he looked Vash dead in the eye and asked: "Truth or Dare?"


	4. Child's Play

A/N: I want to say thanks to everyone who's reviewing. The going is pretty slow so far in Truth or Dare; you're really helping me out. If you're concerned with any OOC-ness on Vash's part, you'll be happy to hear that he becomes more Vash-like in next chapter (I hope), when the insurance girls are going to be introduced.  
**Semi-important announcements:** The Hellcat and Sinically Disturbed have set up a fanart for Truth or Dare with sketches of all the new Gung-ho Guns (there will be five), and profiles. The art is beautiful; many thanks to you two! I'd like everyone to go check it out as soon as it's finished. I'll post the address in the next chapter and also in my profile.  
I might also post the deleted scenes on this website, depending on whether you'd care to read them or not. There's one or two from Wanted, where Meryl and Vash have an unexpected encounter with Rot in a saloon (before the showdown, of course). There's also a "deleted scene" from Truth or Dare, when Knives recruits Daemonicola to the reborn GHG. Let me know if you're interested.  
**Marie Ward: **thanks so much for everything. I really owe you alot. The only reason I stuck with this story so long is because of your and Peridot's reviews on Chapter one. If I could dedicate fanfics (without seeming like a pompous windbag grin) I'd definitely dedicate ToD to you.  
**Peridot3783: **I'm glad somebody likes it! If I don't end up posting the chapters, I'll send them to you personally. Thanks for your reviews! I put alot of stock in them :)  
**Sinically Disturbed: **lol. If it's so hard not to repeat what you've read, maybe you should stop demanding chapters in advance! Crazy yankee...smiles  
**ReadingWhiz89: **I thought it would be more realistic if Vash failed too. It also puts him in a difficult emotional place. And if you thought Knives was evil before...:) Thanks for your review, anyway! With as small an audience as I have, I appreciate reviews all the more.  
**Foxmagic: **thanks! I'm hoping things pick up once Meryl and Milly are introduced...and Knives. Speaking of updates, when will you grace us with the next chapter of "To Canaan Land"? Haha...you're going to have rabid reviewers on your heels soon!

Please Read and Review! I take comments, questions, sarcastic remarks...I need to know what you think and what I might need to work on. I think ToD is struggling--I need to know what's wrong.

* * *

Vash froze, his vision tunneling on the Gung-ho Gun. "What did you say?" He breathed shakily, his stomach plummeting.

"'Truth or Dare?'" Daemonicola repeated silkily.

Vash gave an uneasy laugh. It echoed unpleasantly in the lonely house, harsh and insane. "No..." He shook his head, strands of sandy-blond hair falling across his face. He adjusted his grip on the knife, slick with sweat. "_No_!"

Daemonicola made a show of looking at his pocket watch. "This is tiring, Vash. Choose." He looked up at Vash calmly, eyebrows arched over his silver eyes as he waited for the answer.

Instead, there was a moment of absolute stillness. Then Vash raised the knife before him in an unspoken threat. He could just glimpse his reflection in the steel of the blade. It looked tired, haggard, weary. And determined.

"Are you going to kill me, Vash the Stampede?" Drifted Daemonicola's honeyed voice. He took a step forward, taunting the gunman. Vash was next to him in an instant, the cold knife hovering over the Gung-ho Gun's throat. Daemonicola began to speak, but Vash shook his head sharply.

"I'm tired of listening to you." He narrowed his eyes and tilted his chin up, staring at the man with a kind of curiosity. "What makes you so sure I won't kill you right now?"

The Lion stared somberly with his strange eyes. "You don't have the courage," he said levelly. Daemonicola's fiery eyes darted over Vash's face, taking in every emotion that played across it, gauging his reaction. His voice dropped to a whisper. "You don't have the courage to face the 'consequences' of your actions."

Vash switched the blade to his left hand, wiped his right hand on his jeans, and switched the weapon back. His eyes flickered to the long scar on Daemonicola's face. "That's a nice scar. I can give you another one to match it."

Daemonicola smiled, and Vash was sure the bold talk had sounded as cheesy to the Gung-ho gun as it had to himself. The man's hand flew unconsciously to the scar, and his eyes hazened. "My father gave me this scar..." he raised a hand and pushed Vash's blade away. "Right before I killed my entire family." Daemonicola leaned forward, bringing his lips close to Vash's ear. "_I was nine_."

Vash took a step backward in surprise, letting the weapon drop to his side.

"'Truth or Dare?'" The Gung-ho Gun asked again, and Vash could feel a sick, dead weight settle in the pit of his stomach. At once he felt dizzy and nauseous, and he steadied himself against a wall.

"I can't..." he said in a pained whisper.

"It's your decision." Daemonicola took a step back, and both men eyed each other warily.

Vash opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. He licked his lips, painfully aware of the tears that stung his eyes. "Truth," he said, his voice a strangled whisper.

"We have a widowed mother of two and a twelve-year-old orphan held hostage. One will die. It's your choice: the widow, or the orphan?"

Vash's breaths were coming short and fast, and he was feeling so lightheaded, he thought he might pass out. He massaged his slack face with one hand. His skin was cold and clammy to his probing fingers. "Please...don't make me choose..."

"You _can _refuse...but you know the cost."

Vash let out a noise, spun on his heel. He stood with his back to the Gung-ho Gun, head hung, scrunching his hand in his hair in frustration. "...Can't!" Came the garbled answer. He spun again to face the man. "I can't!" He roared.

"Fine! Then you've made a decision already. The decision to let your friends die. It's a pity they had the misfortune of meeting you. They might have lived longer otherwise." The man turned to go, but was stayed by the solid, commanding voice of Vash.

"Wait!"

Daemonicola hesitated, clearly listening.

"I—I've decided," said Vash.

* * *

Two hours after his encounter at 479 Diabolus Avenue, Vash staggered into a cheerful roadside café, and dropped into a seat, head cradled in his hands. He couldn't stop the tears from coming, couldn't forget the words he'd spoken. The words that had sentenced a twelve-year-old to death. 

"_I—I've decided...kill the orphan." _

_Daemonicola smiled again, and a chill snuck over Vash. The Gung-ho Gun left without a word and Vash sank to the floor, body wracked with silent sobs. Shaking, crying, Vash repeated one word over and over to himself: "Why, why, why...?"_

_The mantra reverberated off the stucco walls, rebounded, filling the air with his murmured chant...in the small, countrified room, alone with the corpse of young Kathan, there had been no one to answer Vash's question. _

_Why?_

He was nearing two days without sleep now. He could feel his edges blurring, his thoughts slowing down. And it wasn't over yet. Knives had something else up his sleeve, Vash could tell. The gunman could feel his dejection slowly turning into nervous energy. He didn't want to sit here, waiting for Knives to make his next move. He needed to even the odds...and he needed a weapon.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" Came the unnaturally high, cheerful voice of the waitress.

"A coffee," Vash said hoarsely, keeping his eyes lowered so the waitress wouldn't notice he'd been crying. A few moments later, the waitress slid a porcelain cup containing what looked like dark brown sludge under his nose.

"$$2.25." She said politely, flashing a radiant smile. Vash stuffed $$3.00 in her outstretched hand.

"Keep the change."

Vash snuggled a little deeper into the red booth seat. He glanced out the window to his left, watching people scurry past on the streets. The sun warmed the leather seat and illuminated his long eyelashes and pale skin. Vash looked down at the rapidly cooling coffee clutched between his hands. God, he was tired. He was tired and aching and wondering to himself why he'd bought coffee. He hated the stuff.

The sound of static erupted in the small diner, and Vash jumped before he realized that a waitress had turned on the radio. He listened half-interestedly to the weather announcer.

"_Some...weather on the way, folks...monsoon season..." _Bursts of static interrupted the weatherman's cheerful report. _"Now...give you a little lesson on deserts. A desert is a biome ...receives 25 cm...rainfall each year. Rain is...rare, ...when it does rain, the...sometimes evaporate before hitting the ground...Gunsmoke isn't a _normal _desert, however. The planet has a monsoon season every five years or so. ...Monsoon season makes it possible to grow geoplants on Gunsmoke...and even creates the aquifers we live off of...Of course, Plants helped with our early survival...found that there were pockets of water called...hidden...beneath the sandy surface of the planet...well, Gunsmoke's last big storm...over six years ago! The monsoon season has caught up to us with a vengeance...weathermen across the planet...predicting one of the biggest, most cataclysmic storms ever! Hope you have umbrellas—"_

"Hey, Joe, switch the station would ya?" Came the cook's abrasive cry. There was some more static, punctuated by the occasional country station. Finally, Joe settled on oldies. Tunes from a buoyant old song filled the restaurant.

Vash took a sip of the coffee and gagged. Yes, he definitely hated coffee. The stuff tasted like sludge. That was $$2.25 that he'd never see again. He forced himself to take another sip. The caffeine would have to last him the next eighteen hours. Maybe more. He glanced at the clock and stood, draining the last of the cup. He couldn't delay any longer. It was time to go. Knives was playing dirty, but by God, Vash wasn't going to submit without a fight. And his best chance at fighting lay near a small hamlet, 200 iles north of LR town.

The Place.

* * *

Vash halted, craning his head upward to read the large sign. It read "Car Rentals" in bold, sun-bleached letters. Car rental agencies were fairly rare on Gunsmoke, because cars were expensive and most people couldn't afford to purchase and maintain a large number of them. Vash was lucky that Byrnes was such a large city, or he would have had to rent a thomas instead. Vash shouldered through the glass door into a frigidly Air Conditioned room. Gleaming slate tiles met _real _wooden walls. Light fixtures set in the walls cast a soft, rosy hue over the room, and the hands of an antique clock ticked quietly from over the marble-topped counter. 

Vash, of course, didn't notice any of this. He strode over to the well-groomed clerk behind the counter, gripped the marble tightly.

"I need to rent a car," he said.

The clerk cleared his throat, tightened his tie, and looked at Vash disapprovingly through half-moon spectacles. The gunslinger fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortably. He was suddenly aware that his white dress shirt was filthy and in need of a wash, that his eyes were shot with red and hooded, that he had sand underneath his short fingernails. "For how long?" The clerk sniffed.

"A day, maybe two."

The clerk scribbled a note on a pad, typed something into the cash register. "It costs $$300 per day," said the clerk. Vash's eyes widened.

"That's insane!"

The clerk said nothing.

"Put me down for one day," Vash said grudgingly, digging cash out of his pocket. He sorted through the crumpled bills, threw $$300 on the counter. He was going to starve at this rate. The clerk made a "harrumph!" in the back of his throat, counting the bills again before putting them in the cash register.

"Would you like liability insurance?" He asked in a bored tone.

Vash was about to say no; then he hesitated. It might not be such a bad idea...

"How much?" He asked.

"An additional fifty."

Vash grumbled, handed the man another fifty. The man scribbled something else on the notepad. He turned to a cabinet behind him, unlocked it, and swung it open. Rows of lambent keys jangled, reflecting the ruddy lights from the room. The clerk unhooked a silver key from the rack, re-closed it, made a notation in the notepad.

"Your receipt," he said, ripping the sheet off of the notepad, "and the keys to your car. It's the black one in the rear parking lot." He waved his hand vaguely.

Vash didn't bother to thank the man, shoving the receipt into a pocket. He walked across the room, threw open the door to the rear parking lot, and stopped. There were close to thirty cars here, polished and glittering in the late afternoon light. He stepped up to the black one and opened the driver's side door, choking as stale, hot air rushed out. Vash climbed into the seat, slammed the door shut behind him. Damn, it was hot in here. Vash started the car, quickly rolled down the windows, and pulled out of the parking lot.

He nosed his way onto Main Street and guided the car northward, out of Byrnes. He watched the ominously dark mists that seemed to cling to Byrnes disappear in his rearview mirror. He'd love to say goodbye to Sin City—to never return to this place. One step away from Hell. But in his heart, Vash had the dark feeling that he couldn't shed this city so easily. That somehow, he would be bound to Byrnes for the rest of his life.

* * *

Four hours later, Vash slowed the car, glancing around for anything familiar. God, things had changed. No longer was Solace the small, country town that Vash had known. After he'd left, the town had struck a water vein and things had taken a turn for the better. Now Solace was 70 square iles and growing. Billboards had been painted on the fences, new buildings were sweeping up, up toward the sky, and air was filled with shouts, chatter, the drone of engines. 

Bits of the old Solace that he had known were wedged in between the new office housings and busy shops. Like the old, dilapidated grocery store on the corner of Hardison and Wess streets. Or the small, crumbling house that he'd lived in with the insurance girls after he'd shot Legato. Vash pushed the thoughts from his mind, instead focusing on the rocky horizon that shimmered and rippled as heat waves rose off the hot stones.

Vash checked the clock: seven pm. It had only taken him four hours to make it to Solace, and _man _had he booked it! This little rental car had a lot of juice in it—he had sliced off a good hour and a half by speeding the entire way. Once or twice, Vash had thought for sure that the engine was going to splutter and die, leaving him stranded between the two cities.

Vash accelerated, eyes fixed on the horizon. His destination lay outside the newly-paved sidewalks and glittering steel buildings of Solace. His wheels churned, kicking up sand as he sped north-bound, where the saloons and businesses petered out into dead, dry wasteland.

_Eleven minutes, seventeen iles, and several cusses later_

Vash didn't see the oasis until he was almost on top of it, courtesy of the suns and heat waves. They formed a mirage, making the tiny oasis vanish. _Clever, Knives_, Vash thought dryly to himself as he brought the car to a squealing stop. The engine gave an exaggerated shudder, the motor rattling beneath its hood, as Vash turned off the ignition. He climbed out, realizing for the first time that he should have brought a shovel with him.

Vash walked reverently over the same path he'd taken two years ago, to fight Knives. He moved over the geoplant slowly and carefully, aquamarine eyes slitted against the hot suns. Once in awhile, he'd scuff something with his shoe, bend over. But each time he straightened, empty-handed. An hour later, his dress shirt was damp with sweat, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He bent over for what felt like the umpteenth time that evening, his back protesting. He ran his fingers through the sand: nothing. Vash wiped his hand on his pants. He was making a slow turn, examining the small oasis again, when a chilling thought struck him.

What if Knives had beaten him to it?

What if his twin had already visited the geoplant, recovered their "siblings", and left? Vash was so absorbed in this new, frightening complication that he didn't realize what he's seen at first: something bright winking in the sunlight. Vash did a quick double-take before stepping nearer. Here it was: his gun. The gun Knives had given him.

He was damned lucky the shifting sands hadn't covered the firearm, but then the trees had probably helped. He slid the piece out of the sandy embankment, made a face. His old gun was in sorry shape—tarnished, almost unrecognizable. Grains of sand spilled from the chamber, from every groove, crusted to the hammer and sedimented to the mouth of the barrel.

Vash set the gun aside, digging in further. His hand brushed something that was not the smooth steel of a second gun, and Vash frowned. He closed his fingers around the object and gave an experimental tug. The object came loose, sand rolling in waves off of it. He gave it a good shake and held it up for inspection, heart catching in his throat: it was his red duster.

A little sun-bleached, caked in dust, wrinkled, torn and patterned with gunpowder, but intact. He'd shrugged out of the coat, abandoning it in the geoplant. He had hoped shedding his geranium-coloured duster would be symbolic of shedding his old, haunted life. Vash snorted. That hadn't worked out too well. Vash carefully folded the coat, turning his gaze back on the cache where he'd hidden the guns and coat two years ago. He plunged his hand back in, groping for the cold stock of Knives' gun. He felt his fingers close around it, yanked it out. He held it gingerly, as though he was afraid of setting it off accidentally. Vash laid the second gun beside his own and rocked back on his heels.

Now he had a fighting chance: he held the ace. Vash picked up the guns, one in each hand, walked back to the car. He unlocked the trunk, double-checked to make sure the guns weren't loaded, and tossed them in, re-locking the trunk and walking to the driver's seat. He'd gotten what he'd come for, but somehow there was still a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Hesitantly, Vash's gaze was drawn to the cache; he crossed the oasis to it. Filthy, tattered, his old duster lay beside the hole. Vash wished he could turn around, leave the coat—and leave Rem—behind forever.

He stooped picking up the duster and letting it fall open. A desert gust stirred the coat, whipped through the bullet holes that peppered the duster. Vash struggled into the garment, not bothering to button it. The coat billowed around his ankles, flapped out behind him as he turned to face the wind. He slid on his topaz sunglasses, took a deep breath.

Try as he might, Vash couldn't ignore his past. And he couldn't ignore Knives. He needed to become Vash the Stampede again. He needed to—to live.


	5. The Telegram

A/N: Thanks you, everyone, for the reviews! It was pretty heartening, so I decided to hurry up and finish chapter number five. Please review again, and I hope you enjoy!  
**ReadingWhiz89: **I had to make truth horrible so Vash would never choose it again. It's hard to come up with truths that are mortifying :. In a normal game of truth or dare, the worst you'll get is: "Who do you have a crush on?" Somehow I doubt Vash would be mortified by that :P  
**Marie Ward: **Thanks, Marie! It's nice that the story is getting more reviews, but I won't forget the people who were with me from the beginning.  
**Aine of Knockaine: **Yeah, Vash the Stampede is back! cheers He's a little under stress, but hopefully he'll revert back to his natural, dorky self.  
**Saraki: **Thanks for the reviews, Saraki! I'm glad you like it. Now that the insurance girls are back, I'm hoping there will be more humor. This chapter basically just gives a brief reintroduction, but the gang has regrouped! Hooray!  
**Zephonia:**The three way romance is going to be a liiittle tricky. If I'm lucky, it'll work out a little like Angelstryke's "A Glimpse of Eden". If not, it'll work out like a horribly sappy soap opera. I'm keeping my fingers crossed :P Reading your review really made my day---thanks.  
**PRoyalAngel: **Meryl appears in this chapter. Belated I know, but better late than never. There's not too much of her in this chapter, but I promise extra-Meryl (and extra VxM) in later chapters  
**SiNicaLLY diSTuRbEd: **Ha. Being a little snide, there:P Yes, I'm sure you'll laugh your ass offwhile watching me struggle to bang out a decent three-way romance with that includes a genocidal maniac and a tempermental hellcat. And Vash's coat is going to get a good washing and sewing job soon.  
**Peridot3787: **Thank you! If I'm not careful, ToD will end up a darkfic---and those are just sad. Time to add lots of humor! That shouldn't be too hard with Milly and Meryl around again. P.S. Yes, bad Knives! Bad, bad Knives!

* * *

Ernie's Bar & Grill on Seraphim street was a small, dark affair. Barnboard with a drop ceiling, the grill had five windows. The shades were drawn, but pale twilight seeped through the wooden slats.

At 8:30PM Byrnes' few respectable citizens had all but disappeared from the smoky joint, and the Grill was starting to attract the dregs of Sin City. A neon sign in the window buzzed and flickered, casting strobe-like light over the darkened street.

In stark contrast to the deepening night, Ernie's Bar & Grill was brisk and buoyant. A few dim lights fought the growing shadows; in the far corner, notes from a spry saloon song were met with whistles, cheer, and claps. Vash leaned back in the deep booth seat, tilting his head back, and staring at the white ceiling. He let his eyes fall shut, listened to the ebb and swell of the piano. He could hear snatches of conversations around him, once in awhile broken by a guffaw or a snort of laughter.

"...Listen, do you fold or no? I've gotta be out by midnight. The ole ball and chain, you know?..."

"I was listenin' to my nephew's radio the other day. That weather fellow reckons it'll be the biggest Gunsmoke's ever seen. Oh, you shoulda heard the nit go on about it..."

"...Say, do you remember that one storm? Musta been five, six years ago. Hell, I don't know, but that was one helluva blight..."

"So I says 'Ron', I says, 'that's my business.' And do you know what that idiot goes and does? He..."

Vash could feel himself lulled to sleep by the melodic piano song and the low hum of activity. Each scrape and bruise and aching muscle lessened until it was just a pleasant blur...

One of the voices suddenly rose in pitch and volume, taking on an angry, accusing tone: "What's this, Lyle?"

Vash turned his head lazily. The speaker was a middle-aged, whiskered man. A sheen of sweat glazed his sunburnt face, his eyes shot red with liquor. The man pushed up from the green felt poker table, reached across to pick up a playing card.

The second voice rejoined, guarded and uneasy. "What's what, Clay?"

Clay's voice rose a few octaves. "Don't play me for a fool!" He shook the card in his hand. "This is an ace of spades!"

"Yes, it's the—"

Not _the_ ace of spades, Lyle, _an_ ace of spades." Clay threw his cards down on the table, pointed to one. "Now tell me what that is," he growled.

Lyle's voice took on an undertone of fear. "Another ace of spades."

Clay reached down, gripped the table with both hands, and heaved with all his might. The table overturned with a crash, sending coins and poker chip scattered around the bar. Ernie's Grill had taken on a deathly quiet hush as the frequenters watched the scene unfold.

"You were cheating me!" Clay roared. He tucked his hand into his jacket, withdrew a revolver. "No one cheats Clay Madsen." Vash recognized the sound of a hammer being cocked.

"No!" Vash cried reflexively, scooting off the booth. He swayed unsteadily, undecided. Clay spared him a glance.

"Who in hell are you?"

Vash was nearing fifty-nine hours without sleep. His actions were becoming sluggish, hesitant. What's worse, so were his thoughts.

"Vash," he mumbled.

Clay's eyes slitted and the corner of his lip twitched up scornfully. "Vash the Stampede?" His gaze traveled from Vash's pallid face to his slender, athletic build, finally coming to rest on his bullet-singed duster. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Vash's hand strayed toward his gun. "No, sir." He said. He unbuttoned the holster silently. He had reloaded his old firearm, but there was no guarantee it would work in its present condition.

"You blow that big hole in the fifth moon?" Clay grunted.

"Yes." Vash's fingers closed around the cold stock of his firearm, and he eased it out.

Clay looked undecided for a moment; then he aimed the gun at Vash's chest. "Don't move," he ordered.

Vash froze.

"Don't twitch," Clay continued, walking toward Vash. "Don't blink. Don't even breathe. His eyes flicked down to Vash hand, half-concealed beneath his duster.

"You got a gun?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to drop it."

"I can't do that." Vash protested. "There's a chance you might hurt someone."

Clay leveled the gun at Vash, squeezed the trigger. Vash threw himself to the side and the window behind him exploded in a shower of glass. Vash rolled, landing on his feet. He cocked his pistol. He didn't trust his aim—he was tired, sore, and seeing double. He could seriously injure someone.

Clay's boots crunched in the carpet of broken glass. He gave a drunken chuckle. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he cried in a singsong voice. "There you are!"

Vash barely had time to scramble out of the way before a second shot and third shot rang out. Vash heard a loud _cra-ack_ and glanced behind him with a growing sense of dread. The bullets had flown through the shattered window buried themselves in the windshield of his $$350 rental car. _Great_, Vash thought with a grimace. Thank God for insurance.

Vash swung his focus over to Clay. He pressed his lips into a thin line, aiming the revolver carefully. He couldn't afford to make a mistake. Vash squeezed off a round; the shot was wide, burrowing into the wall in a spray of plaster and dust. Coughing, the gunslinger scampered---undignified---under a table.

"Come on, gunman!" Clay goaded. "Come out and fight like a man!" He fired another shot to punctuate his sentence.

Vash curled his long legs underhis table, reaching in his pocket to replace the spent bullet. He forced it into the chamber with numb fingers. Clay's gun was .45 Colt—it only had six shots. Clay had already used four. If Vash could coax him into wasting the last two...

He scrambled out from under the booth, boots grappling for purchase on the glass-strewn floor. "Hey Clay!" He called, waving his arms.

Clay spun, took another shot at Vash. Vash ducked last minute; he could practically hear the slug whistling by. Damn, that was close.

Vash rose from his crouch. "You have terrible aim," he said dryly. "I'm ten feet away."

Clay blinked, and Vash could see the gears whirring through his alcohol-induced haze. "You're not human," Clay slurred.

Vash licked his lips. Clay had just one more shot.

There was a crack of gunfire, and Vash tensed. But the bullet wasn't fired by Clay—Madsen was still standing shell-shocked in the ravaged Bar & Grill. A trickle of blood ran from Clay's temple where the mysterious bullet had grazed him.

Clay stiffened, dropped his weapon fearfully.

"Don't move," came a high, familiar voice. Vash went rigid with shock. "Well, well, well." The voice continued. "Vash the Stampede."

For Vash, it was as though time was suspended. He couldn't move or speak. It felt like his very breath had been sucked out of his lungs. That voice...he knew that voice. Slowly, jerkily, he turned around, slack-jawed.

His mind was buzzing with things to say, but he couldn't seem to work his mouth. "Meryl?" He forced out.

"So you _can _talk," she cracked.

She hadn't changed at all. Meryl Stryfe's dark hair was tangled and mussed. Her stormy grey-violet eyes, full of fire, were half-hidden by the ebony tresses, and Vash could faintly make out the fine white scar on her cheekbone. She was glaring at him expectantly, daring him to speak. Two gleaming derringers were clutched in her hands, trained on Clay Madsen.

Damn, she was cute.

"Milly," Meryl said, and Vash's eyes slid past Meryl and focused on the tall brunette. "Get the police."

"Yes, Sempai!" Milly said enthusiastically, picking her way through the splintered faux-wood and wreckage.

* * *

Deputy Brock gave Ernie's Bar & Grill a once-over, allowing his bewilderment to show through. He knew Ernie's Bar & Grill. Once in awhile he had a drink here with the boys. It was a decent joint, and Ernie was a fair guy: his bar was the only place where you could get a hamburger and a pitcher of beer for under $$5.

He hadn't expected to get a call at twelve midnight saying the bar was annihilated.

Yes, annihilated was a good word to describe the tavern. The windows were shot out, the blinds chipped and smoking. The room was thick with gunsmoke and the searing smell of gunpowder. Light fixtures dangled from the ceiling, showering sparks, and several of the cherry-coloured booth seats were spewing stuffing.

The floor was scattered with poker chips, chunks of plaster, plastic, glass, and wood. Brock turned his accusing eyes on Vash, who gave a sheepish grin.

The deputy's eyes roved over the scene of destruction, once more settling on the outlaw. "What the hell happened here?"

Vash looked around the diner with a critical eye, offering the deputy a chagrined smile. "Oops."

Brock stared at him coldly. "Oops? The tavern is destroyed!"

Vash glanced wildly at Meryl, pleading for help as he wracked his weary brain for a reasonable explanation. "He started it!" He cried, pointing at Clay.

The deputy gave Clay a quick up-and-down. "That so?" He asked.

"Yes, that's so," came an angry, shaking voice. Vash turned, spotted Lyle picking himself up from the ruined ground. "Madsen was going to shoot me; Vash the Stampede intervened."

The deputy gave Lyle a long, even look, sizing him up. Finally he grunted. "Mr. Madsen?" He crossed over to Clay, cuffed him. "Come with me, please." He turned to leave, then paused. "You too, Vash."

Vash's eyebrows shot up. "Me?"

"This is the second business you've destroyed in as many days, Mr. Vash. This way." He jerked his head to indicate the outside, began walking to the police-issue car.

Vash trudged through the ankle-high devastation, kicking aside part of a splintered window frame. With a sinking sensation, he slid into the back of Brock's cruiser...again.

"How long do I have to stay this time?" He asked plaintively.

"That's not my decision."

Vash fell into a sulky hush, watching the scenery fly by with grudging eyes. He could see the ghost of his reflection in the car window, warped and shadowy. His face was tinged grey with stress and exhaustion, and the skin beneath his eyes were bruised dark with fatigue. His hair hung limply in his face; he looked like a dead man—which, he supposed, he was. A dead man walking.

Brock eased the cruiser up to the station, killed the engine. He blew air out through his cheeks before twisting in his seat to check on his charges. "You okay?" He asked Vash concernedly.

"Just peachy," Vash grumbled.

With a nod, Brock climbed out of the driver's seat, unlocked the back door, and waved the two men out.

The secretary at 8th police precinct, a plumpish, smug-looking woman of forty, glanced up as Brock marched his charges through the large double doors. Everything about her, from her bright turquoise dress to her gaudy, jangling jewelry, oozed disdain.

"Not again?" The secretary arched an eyebrow as Vash trudged past, her patronizing eyes following him. One lacquered hand flew up to smooth her perfectly coifed hair, while the other drummed against the metal desk with a hollow, ringing sound. "That the same man from yesterday?" She asked, her lip curling up in scorn.

"Mind your business, Nan," Brock chided, giving her a glare.

Nan lapsed into sullen silence, her black eyes following the trio down the hall.

Brock made a quick stop at the drunk tank and locked Clay securely inside before continuing down the hall. He unlocked an empty cell for Vash and the gunslinger shuffled inside.

"That address help you yesterday?" Brock asked. Vash eyed him dolefully, debating whether to tell him the truth or a kind lie. He settled on the truth, shook his head.

"Sorry to hear that," said Brock, sounding genuine. He lingered a moment longer before wheeling around and leaving Vash to his thoughts. Vash listened to Brock's footsteps fade before letting his mind turn to Meryl. What was she doing here, in Byrnes, of all places? It was dangerous. Something told Vash that her appearance here wasn't mere coincidence.

Vash sat down heavily on the cot, scratched his head. He was struggling to function, to keep on going. It was a losing battle. He lay down on the cot with a groan, rubbing his eyes with a cold hand. Vash stared at the ceiling until it blurred, receding into black, and he slept. He slept the dark, dreamless sleep of a haunted man.

* * *

"Vash." A singsong voice drifted from just beyond his cell. Vash frowned, trying to block the voice out. He wanted to sleep...

"Vash." Vash's brow furrowed and he gave a little moan. He could feel now the cool draft of night air; the kink in his neck; the coarse linen of the prison cot.

"Vash!" The voice said, more sharply.

Vash toppled out of bed, landing on the cell floor in a tangle of arms and legs. "Huh?" He managed, looking up. Deputy Brock was standing outside his cell. Again.

"Your bail has been paid." Brock said. "You're free to go." He unlocked the door, held it open, and Vash felt a strong wave of deja vu.

The outlaw didn't move. "Free, huh? For how long?" He asked sarcastically, rubbing the back of his head.

Brock shrugged. "Until you destroy someone else's business." He gestured for Vash to follow him.

Vash needed no second bidding. He jumped to his feet, trailing behind the deputy. The short walk to the entranceway was in awkward silence. Vash walked briskly, trying to ignore the rattling of bars and cries from further down the cell block. Brock stopped abruptly at a metal gate, unlocked it, and swung it open. Vash stepped through, waited for Brock to relock the door, and stepped into the main entrance to 8th police precinct.

"Follow me," Brock said, hiking up his duty belt. He wound his way through the cheerfully-lit room, past officers and rows of Formica tables to a small desk wedged in the very back of the room. Brock shifted some piles of paperwork, slid a drawer open, and removed three guns.

"These are yours," he said, pushing them across the desk.

"Thanks." Vash snapped the safety on all three, shoved two into the waistband of his pants, and holstered the third.

Brock sat down in the desk chair, shuffling papers, manila folders, and post-it notes. He rubbed his nose, clicked a pen on, began filling out papers. After a few moments, Brock looked up. "Something on your mind?" He asked.

"Who paid my bail?" Vash asked, suddenly curious.

"I did," came Meryl's voice from behind him.

"Meryl!" Vash said, whirling. Back in his cell, he had wondered if he'd actually seen the ebon-haired insurance girl, or if she was just a dream conjured up by his fevered mind. But the lissome insurance girl was leaning against the precinct wall, arms crossed, flashing him a look of utter annoyance.

"Yeah, that's me," came the tart reply. Meryl gave him a quick up-and-down. "You look terrible," she informed the outlaw

"Haven't been sleeping," he said, stifling a yawn. He looked behind her, straining to catch sight of Milly. "Where's Milly?"

"Back at the hotel."

Vash caught Meryl byher arm, steering her away from Brock and into the hustle and bustle of the room, where they were less likely to be overheard. He glanced around the room, lowered his voice. "What are you doing in Byrnes?"

Meryl's eyebrows shot up. "I have no idea—I thought _you_ were going to tell _me_."

"What?" Vash asked, his sleep-deprived brain utterly confused. An officer brushed past the pair, knocking against Vash's shoulder with an "excuse me."

"I left December as quickly as I could after I got _this _in the mail. It's from you." Meryl pulled a telegram from her pocket, handing it to Vash. She waited for him to read it, her eyes gauging his response.

Vash unfolded the paper, scanned the contents. It read:

_Vash (stop). Come to Byrnes right away (stop). Trust me: important (stop). Bring Milly (stop). Meet me if you can._

"Meryl," Vash whispered, suddenly afraid. "I didn't send this."

"What do you mean?" Meryl asked.

"I mean," he elaborated, "someone wanted you here in Byrnes. Someone other than me." He looked at the telegram thoughtfully, then folded the note back after the first "(stop)". Carefully, he folded the note in the opposite direction after the word "meet". His eyes darted over the paper, which now read:

_Vash (stop) me if you can._

"Knives," Vash breathed.


	6. Skeletons in the Closet

A/N: Hi guys! I'm back! And earlier than expected, thanks to Ad Drop period. Anyway, these next few weeks are going to be tough. Updates will be slow in the coming---I had this chappie half-finished by the time school started, which is why it was finished two weeks before I expected to finish it. Lots more humor! **I have ALOT of news**:  
**1.)** If you'd like to put a character in this fiction, send me information about the character---gender, looks, personality. It'd be a load off of me if I didn't have to keepinventing different looks and styles for each new character in Truth or Dare. Depending on whether I like the character or not, I will put them somewheres in the fic. I can't guarantee a huge role to everyone's character, but most will be entered under these guidelines: it must be an _original_ character, the character must be unique, NOT all characters can be beautiful belles---that's not realistic. People in real life come in all varieties---old, young, comely, and homely. To make a realistic fic, all types must be included. I'd be ecstatic if people would participate in this. Develop a character and send his/her information to this email account: I'll love you forever if you send some ideas---not much info is needed on the character, just a line or two about physical appearance, expression, etc. DON'T FORGET TO SEND YOUR PERMISSION FOR ME TO USE THE CHARACTER. I will dedicate all characters used to the respective creators in the Authoress's Notes at the beginning of the chapter that they appear in. They could turn up as Gung-ho Guns, petty criminals, cops, waitors, anything.  
**2.) **A website has been set up for fanart for Truth or Dare, depicting all the reborn gung-ho guns. The artwork is definitely worth a look, it's at Go ahead, take a peek.  
**3.) A little note about this chapter: there's a lot of hints and clues in here about things that happened in the past**---mainly, Meryl and Vash's past. It might strike you as a little confusing whenever they refer to something, don't worry. That'll reveal itself, everything will be explained eventually.  
**4.) I have the draft for a revision of chapter 4. **It changed A LOT, but the general storyline endured, plus some phrases. I think it's better than the first. I'll post it at the previously mentioned website eventually---not yet, though. Then I'll take a sort of "poll" to see which chapter should be discarded.  
**Peridot3783: **I'm glad someone saw the humor; there wasn't much of it---more is coming, as promised! As for your questions: Knives lived with Meryl, Milly, and Vash while recovering. I mentioned it briefly in the very first chapter. His interest them---especially Meryl---is much more complex and difficult to explain. Knives intentions will reveal themselves...I have a plan...:P  
**Aine of Knockaine: **Well, here's some VashxMeryl friction for ya! I've never been any good at all at writing romance, so it may come off a little awkward or clumsy. Hopefully, I'll get the hang of it with time.  
**Saraki: **Thanks! I was afraid the ending to chap. 5 wouldn't make much sense. Thanks for your time and your review, I hope you injoy this chapter.  
**Sinically Disturbed: **didn't bother with the capital letters in your name...it's too much of a bother at twelve midnight. I finished the chappie---twelve pages long, no thanks to _you_. I hope "cousin it" gave you hell to make up for you ignoring my distress. --_sticks out tongue--_I'll see you this weekend, when I'll force you to finish the next chapter of you story, deal? Good.  
**PRoyalAngel: **Thanks so much! Your review made me so happy! I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
**ReadingWhiz89: **I'm so relieved you liked it...I've never been great at getting the characters...well, in character. _Especially_ Meryl. I think the ending to this chapter is a tad too abrupt, but there's no help for it. I have a class at 7:30 AM tomorrow...curse those foreign languages :P

* * *

"Vash?" Meryl's satirical voice sliced through Vash's thoughts and he looked up from the telegram. 

"Huh?"

Meryl teased the note from between his fingers and waved it under his nose. "You want to tell me what this means?"

Vash gave the room another secretive scan, stepping closer to Meryl and dropping his voice to a hush. "Two—no, three days ago, a man was killed in my hometown."

"So?"

Vash felt a moment of confusion at her cavalier attitude. "So the word 'Knives' was painted on the wall," he said. He watched for a slip of composure, a gasp, anything. Still, Meryl kept her poker face.

"And you think Knives—"

"Knives had him killed," Vash interrupted hastily.

"How are you so sure?" Meryl asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Vash took a deep breath, held it. "He's reformed the Gung-ho Guns."

"Vash, that's prepost—"

"Is it, Meryl?" Vash asked, aware that his voice was rising in pitch, taught with emotion. "Two of them have approached me already. They call themselves 're-born'. They...they've been giving me...challenges."

"Challenges?" Meryl asked, disbelieving. "What sort of challenges?"

"Challenges like this!" Vash hissed in low tones, gesturing at the telegram. "Look, if you fold it like this—" Vash took the paper from her gently, creasing it. "—it reads '_Vash stop me if you can._'"

"You're sure it's from Knives?" Meryl asked dubiously.

"Yes!" Vash cried in exasperation. "This whole thing began two days ago. Do recognize the importance of the date that he selected?"

There was a silence. The rasping of cell doors creaking open and shut, the shuffle of feet, the low conversations in the precinct were the only answer Vash received.

"Two days ago was the 2-year anniversary of Knives' escape. Now he—he's taunting me. He's punishing me." Vash finished.

"You think this challenge was meant for you?" Meryl asked mockingly.

"I _know _it was."

"Then," Meryl began, "Knives knew I'd come to Byrnes. He knew that I'd find you; that I'd show you the telegram."

A familiar sense of dread washed over Vash. "He was counting on it," he said softly. There was another, uncomfortable quiet. Meryl stuffed the telegram into her pocket, shook her head as if to clear the thoughts. "All right. Let's say you're right. What are you supposed to stop him from doing?"

Vash said nothing.

"He's planning an attack on humanity. Isn't that right, Vash?"

Vash looked at her sharply. Then his shoulders slumped. "Yes," the plant said. "But not just that. It's not enough."

"It's not enough?" Meryl echoed incredulously.

"No. He wants to hurt me, break me. He's planning something darker. Something..." Vash trailed off, frowning. "What? What is he thinking?" He mumbled to himself.

Meryl had no answer for him. "Look, Vash." She sighed, rolling her shoulders. "Do you have a place to spend the night?"

Vash shook his head.

"Okay—come with me and Milly. You need some rest. You can leave in the morning."

"I can't...he's out there," Vash said weakly. "I have to find him."

"Not in this sorry shape. Believe me, I'm not too eager to have you staying with Milly and myself either, but you can't fight Knives in this condition." She pulled a face. "Besides, you could really use a shower."

Vash scoffed. " I smell fine!"

Meryl rolled her eyes. "Yeah, for a _pig_. Come on, big guy. You can save the world tomorrow."

* * *

The first thing that Vash became aware of was the clatter of keys. The sharp, staccato clickity-clack of a Corona typewriter permeated the mugginess of Vash's sleep, winding into his consciousness, tugging him awake. He screwed his eyes shut, nestling deeper into soft, cotton blankets. He was in a cot. No, a bed. It smelled of bleach: clean and pristine. There was a faint undertone of something else, too...something sweet. He cracked a bleary eye open. 

At first, Vash didn't recognize the alien room. It was large, high-ceilinged and tastefully decorated. The walls were a pale goldenrod, adorned with borders and dentrils. Sunshine slanted through translucent drapes, painting the partition with broad, even strokes. Colorful prints in gold gilded frames hung from the walls.

The gunman blinked slowly. _Where...?_ Then it hit him. The hotel room; Milly and Meryl's hotel room at the Sonata Plaza. Vash breathed in deeply , enjoying the laziness of the bright, clear morning. Vash stretched, entangling his long limbs in the bedsheets. He kicked them off and rolled over with a groan, landing with a _thump_ on the floor. The outlaw lay there for a moment, breathing in the foreign smells of the carpet before gathering enough energy to push himself sitting-up.

The clicking stopped, and Vash glanced up to see Meryl eying him, a half-smile gracing the sensuous curves of her lips. The smirk was gone in an instant, and the temperamental insurance girl turned back to her routine report before he could catch her eyes.

"So, the Lone Ranger awakes," the ebon-haired Siren cracked. Vash picked himself off the floor. The gunslinger settled on the bed, the boxspring squeaking its protest. There was something he was forgetting...what, though? He knew it was important—he could feel it. It was like standing on the brink of a revelation. He shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs of sleep.

"Whatcha working on?" The blond asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The rattle of the typewriter resumed.

"A report."

Vash tried to keep surprise from his voice. "You still do that? Disaster investigation?"

Meryl snorted, un-ladylikely. No, Meryl was no lady—but she was one hell of a woman, Vash mused. He'd always admired her hellbent determination. It was...well, scary. "Of course I'm still doing 'that'." There was a pause before she added, "It's been eighteen months, Vash, not eighteen years."

"On that note," Vash began, but Meryl cut him off.

"Vash, I really don't have time to chat right now. I have to file this report for Bailey's Liquor Store." She glared at him, sweeping short, ebon bangs from her eyes. "By the way, repairs for that window you broke cost Bernardelli $$300."

"I don't want to be blown off again."

Meryl stared hard at the report in the typewriter, her fingers flying over the old keys. Vash listened to her type for a moment, enjoying the sound as the keys clacked, enjoying the scent of old ink and aging paper. There was a _ding _as Meryl finished a row, and she slammed the bar back with perhaps a little more force than necessary. He watched her punch the last few keys, then tear the paper out.

"Meryl," he prompted, reminding her he was still waiting for his answer.

"Vash, can't you see that I'm busy?" She said irritatedly, riffling through a tottering stack of papers next to the typewriter. She sifted through the sheets with an agitated efficiency, muttering "envelopes" to herself.

"Yeah, I can see that. So _please_ tell me...why...and I'll go away."

Meryl shot him a sarcastic look as she struggled to bite back the rising comment. Instead, she crossed over to the walk-in closet, pulled the heavy oak door open, and stepped inside, scanning the shelves. Vash trailed behind her expectantly. Milly and Meryl had already unpacked their things, stuffing the small closet full with clothes, stacks of paper, ink cartridges and bric-a-brac. There wasn't enough room for the two of them to fit comfortably in there, and he knocked into her shoulder accidentally.

"Vash, I don't think there's enough room in here," Meryl warned, poking through the disheveled folders and notepads on the shelves.

"I'm not leaving until you give me an answer," he said firmly.

Meryl tilted her head back, staring at the top shelf. She could just make out the narrow, rectangular shape of the envelopes hanging over the shelf. Standing on tiptoes, she made an unsuccessful swipe for them. "Vash," she grunted, trying again to reach the envelopes. "I don't have time for this."

Vash reached past her, grabbed the envelopes, and handed them to her.

"Thanks," she said grudgingly, trying to squeeze past him. Vash blocked her path.

"I want an answer, Meryl. In fact," he shut the closet door and leaned against it, trapping them both inside. "I'm not going to budge until you give me one."

The short insurance girl gave him a patented "Meryl" glare, and he wilted beneath her grey-violet eyes.

"Later, Vash. Not now."

"Later, you promise?"

"I promise." She reached past him and wrenched the doorknob. Vash watched as confusion, then raw disbelief played across her features. "Vash," she said, frowning.

"What?"

"Was the door locked when you closed it?" There was an edge of panic in her voice.

Vash blanched. "I don't know."

Meryl twisted the doorknob again, hard. "You don't _know_?"

_Uh-oh_, thought Vash to himself. "I didn't exactly _check_, Meryl." He said lamely.

Meryl jangled the doorknob furiously. "You locked us in the closet?" She cried, twisting the doorknob again.

"I didn't mean to!"

Meryl glared at him. "Vash Saverem," she said in a cold, even voice that told Vash her temper was rising. "You have to get us out of here."

"How?" Yelped Vash. "The door's two inches thick!"

"I don't know, use your head!" She stared at him, eyebrows slightly knitted, eyes narrowed.

Vash scratched his head, glanced around the tiny closet. "When is Milly coming back?" He asked timidly.

Meryl let out a scream of frustration. "You idiotic, broom-headed _moron_! I can't be stuck in here until Milly comes back! I have to file this report before the mail is collected!" Vash cringed, shielding his face with his arms.

"I didn't know it was locked, I swear!"

Meryl scowled, shoved past him, and began pounding on the door. "Hey!" She yelled. "Help! We need some help over here!"

"Meryl—"

"Come on! Somebody, _get us out of the damned closet!_"

"Meryl, I don't—"

"Hello? Anybody!"

"Meryl, I don't think anyone can hear you!" Vash finally cried.

Meryl whirled on him, breathing heavily. "You. I—that is, I can't _belie_—I mean..._God_, you are such a retard!" She stammered. "What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking."

"Of course you weren't, Vash. You _never_ think."

"I think sometimes."

Meryl gave him a death glare. Then she turned and began hammering her fist on the door again.

"What, are you trying to break through the door?" Vash teased.

"Now is _not _the time, Vash," she warned, pounding at the door.

"Meryl." When Meryl didn't reply, he reached over and clamped his hand over her wrist. "That's not going to get us anywhere."

"Oh, and standing there with a blank look on your face _is_ going to get us somewhere?" She asked hotly, writhing under his grip.

"Meryl, you're wasting oxygen. I don't know how much we have left in here."

Meryl stopped suddenly as this new thought hit her. They stood in complete silence for a moment; Meryl's breathing slowly becoming more regular. Then it struck him how close they were standing together. Stuffed into the tiny closet, they were forced chest to chest, facing each other.

He quickly let go of her wrist, blushing in the dim light. There was a pregnant silence, then Meryl slumped to the ground. Idly, she snatched a stray paper up from the floor. The slender woman shook the paper open and gave it a rueful scan. "My report," she said regretfully, letting the crumpled paper hang open for him to see.

Vash made a grab for the report, but Meryl moved it beyond his reach.

"I want to read it!" Vash said, trying to snatch the report.

"Why?" Meryl asked, tucking behind her back.

"I'm in it, right?"

"Duh. You smashed Bailey's window in."

"I want to read what you wrote about me."

"I wrote that you're a horrible, pigheaded fiend who smashes people's windows in for fun."

"Hey!" Vash said with mock indignity.

Meryl shrugged. "I'm brutally honest."

"So on your resume, did you include that you're a horribly temperamental hellcat?" Vash goaded.

"Sticks and stones." Meryl managed, but Vash could tell she was pissed off. Good. She groped along the floor for the forgotten swatch of envelopes, stuffing the report inside one with short, angry gestures. He watched her pat herself down, then look at him searchingly. "Pen?" She asked in a tight, angry voice. Vash reached forward and eased out the pen that was tucked behind her ear, offering it to her.

Meryl took it was a grumbled "thanks", scribbled a hasty address on it, and snapped the cover back on the pen. The pair lapsed into silence.

Vash cleared his throat. "Nice hotel," he said conversationally, glancing around the tiny closet. "Not much room to store your stuff, but—"

"Vash," Meryl growled.

Vash fell silent. He shifted his weight once or twice, feeling an uncomfortable stab of Claustrophobia. The rangy, gangling gunman finally dropped into a crouch beside Meryl. He drummed his fingers restlessly against the floor—a nervous habit. The tension in the air was as thick as custard as Vash readjusted his seat, trying not to bump into the short-fused insurance girl.

"Some bad weather on the way," he blurted out when he could no longer take the unearthly hush. To his surprise, Meryl answered him.

"Yeah. That's what they're saying."

"The biggest yet," Vash continued, encouraged. Meryl didn't respond.

Vash wound his hand through his hair, wishing he could fast-forward time. It was hard to estimate the minutes slipping by, but to Vash it seemed interminable. His spine was folded into an awkward "C", and his muscles were beginning to knot. He almost missed it when Meryl posed a question.

"...telling me?" Meryl finished.

Vash blinked. "Pardon?"

"I said, what aren't you telling me?" Meryl asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper, as though she was afraid they'd be overheard.

Vash felt a wave of nervous adrenaline and his palms began to sweat. "I don't know what you mean," he lied. Truth was, he'd been careful to skirt around one delicate topic ever since he regrouped with the insurance girls: the game. Knives' game of Truth or Dare. Vash didn't know what was stopping him, but he couldn't bring himself to tell the girls. Somehow, repeating what had happened would make it real. It would make him a sinner.

Meryl gave a short, humorless laugh. "Come on, Vash. I've known you for six years. I know that you drum your fingers when you're tense, and that you eat ketchup with everything." She leaned forward. "I know that you hate being 'Vash the Stampede'; that you're favorite music is pop; and I _know _that when you're ashamed of something, you run your hand through your hair. Like you're doing now." She stared at him pointedly. "So instead of beating around the bush, why don't you tell me what's wrong?"

Vash opened his mouth, made an indecipherable noise, then shut it. Finally, in a beaten whisper: "Okay. I might not be telling you everything."

The sylphlike girl leaned back against the door, an insufferable smug look crossing her face. Vash felt a sudden pitch of irritation. "Well? You want to answer my question? What aren't you telling me?"

"Why don't you answer _my _question?" Vash asked sulkily.

"Because." Meryl folded her arms expectantly. Vash spluttered with indignation.

"I asked you first!" He cried.

"So? I asked you second."

Vash sat back, a look of confusion crossing his face. "But—that...that's my point. You asked second."

"Right; I asked second, so I answer second."

"That's not fair," the gunman groused.

"_Life's_ not fair, broom-head."

"I'm rubber, you're glue: whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you."

"Oh, real mature Vash." Meryl said, her temper rising. "You can't answer a simple question?"

"Well, can't you? All you are is a hypocrite, Meryl."

Meryl's face registered first surprise, then outrage. "Oh, _I'm_ the hypocrite? All that bullshit you spout about justice and then you—eighteen months ago, you—"

"I what?" Vash prompted, exasperated. Still he could feel color rising to his cheeks. He knew exactly what Meryl was referring to.

"You know, Vash!'

Vash stood, seething. The tension in the closet had increased tenfold, and the air was too hot for his liking. He loosened his shirt, feeling sweat begin to form along his collarbone. He face was flushed; so was Meryl's. They were running out of oxygen. He took a deep, steadying breath, a wave of dizziness threatening to knock him off his feet.

"Why are you here, Meryl?" He asked finally, voice still strained. He was still angry with the short spitfire of a woman—but he needed to know.

"I told you—your note. Or Knives' note. Whatever." Her tone indicated that she was still furious with Vash, too.

"No. What made you come?" Vash kept his sight diverted to the wall of the closet, keenly avoiding Meryl's intense gaze. He could feel her eyes on him. "You could have stayed in December. Where it's safe."

Meryl opened her mouth to reply, but the rasp of doorhinges distracted her. "Milly," she breathed. "Milly's here." Then, louder, she cried "Milly! In here!"

Outside, Milly paused, half a dozen grocery bags crushed in her strong arms. "That's odd," she murmured to herself. "I could swear I just heard Sempai..." She remained fixed to the spot for a beat before shrugging. "Must be my imagination."

"Milly!" Meryl cried, more fervently. "In here—over here!" She and Vash chorused.

Milly dropped the bags on the table. She hesitated, listening. "Meryl?" She called.

"YES! Milly, it's me! In here!" Meryl pounded on the closet door to illustrate.

Milly cocked her head, staring at the closet door. "Are you...in the closet?" The big girl asked.

"Yes," Meryl cried, relieved. "Open the door. Open—the—door."

The big girl didn't move. "What are you doing in the closet?"

Depraved by lack of air, Vash's brain was having trouble concentrating. He felt the overwhelming urge to laugh at the whole situation, and he might have—but he suspected Meryl would have shot him if he did.

"Just open the door," Meryl said in a wavering voice that threatened to break.

Milly shuffled forward and opened the closet slowly. Meryl and Vash, who had both been pressing against the door, fell forward in a jumble of arms and legs. Vash scrambled shamefacedly off the short insurance girl. The two sat guiltily on the floor, sweating, flushed, and out-of-breath. Milly looked from her mentor to her friend, and Vash could practically see the gears of her brain working. "Mister Vash? What were you doing in the closet with—oh."

Meryl's eyes widened as she realized how compromising their situation looked. "NO!" She cried, horrified. "Not that, Milly—it wasn't that. You see," she let out a forced chuckle. "I needed envelopes—"

"—Right, envelopes—" Vash injected helpfully.

"—And I couldn't find any, so I went to look in the closet—"

"And I...I thought I would _help_ her get the envelopes," Vash picked up, "because she's too short, so I went into the closet too."

"And the door, it—well, it sort of shut," Meryl stammered. "Not sure how, but we were both locked in the closet, see?"

"And we both sorta lost it and started screaming, so we ran out of oxygen, and it got pretty hot in there."

"And that's how you found us," Meryl concluded. "You see? It wasn't like that at all." She shot Vash a disgusted look. "Not at all."

Milly's eyes traveled from Vash to Meryl, then back again throughout the exchange. "You know what, I forgot pudding! How silly—I think I'll go grab some. You two can stay here." The big girl veered toward the door.

"Milly, NO! Don't leave me...I mean, us, alone." Meryl and Vash followed Milly desperately, but she seemed determined to get the two of them alone.

"No, really, Sempai, I'll only be gone for awhile. You stay here."

"Milly, if you walk out that door, I will...I'll...I'll censure you!"

Milly froze.

"I think what we need," Meryl continued, "is to get out for a little bit. Let's all go out to eat." She looked at Milly pleadingly. "What do you say, Milly?"

"Can we go to a pudding bar?"

"Excellent idea. Vash, get your coat." She shot the gunman a glare that clearly said "you will pay", before turning on her heel and exiting the hotel room, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

The night was crisp, with the hint of briskness that precedes a big storm. The sky overhead was a clear, darkening blue. On the horizon, clouds had begun to roil, and a bitter wind was stirring the city. The trio had ducked inside a lively little eatery—not a pudding bar, to Milly's dismay. They were seating around a square, red-checkered table, huddling down against the sudden cold that was gripping Gunsmoke. 

"I wonder if they serve pudding?" Milly mused, scanning the oversize menu.

"Call it a hunch, Milly, but I don't think they serve pudding here," Meryl said wryly. She took a sip from the ever-present coffee cup at her elbow, wincing at the bitter black brew.

"I don't see why not," Milly sulked. "It's the second-best food in the world."

Vash cocked his head curiously. "You mean it's not the first-best?"

"Nope."

Vash exchanged a shocked look with Meryl. "So, what is it?" He asked Milly.

"What is what?"

"The best food in the world."

"What's the best food in the world?"

"Yeah, what's the best food in the world?" Vash prodded.

"I just asked you." Milly said confusedly.

Vash scratched his head. "Huh?"

"Just forget it," Meryl advised him. She glanced down at her menu. "I think I'll have a sandwich. How about you, Vash?"

"I don't know." Vash snapped the menu open. Suddenly, the outlaw fell silent and rigid. For a moment, Meryl thought he was going to faint. His face was white and twisted into a horribly shocked expression. Sweat glistened at his pale brow, giving him a sickly, jaundiced cast.

"What is it?" She asked quickly, leaning over to look at his menu. With white, trembling hands, Vash lifted a slip of paper that had fluttered from the menu to the table. It was plain, lackluster—a simple sheet of paper with five black, italicized words:

_Stop me if you can._

* * *

A/N: Hurray, it's nearly Friday! Please review everyone, it would really make my day. Thanks! 


	7. Something to be Desired

**A/N: **Wow, it's been awhile, huh? Finals are tomorrow. Guess I should be studying. Oh, well... :( Here's a little pre-Christmas gift. Hell, maybe I can even manage to crank another chapter out before Christmas Eve. This is a pretty angsty piece. Things will get happier. Er, I hope. What a bleak Christmas present! Ah, whatever. Hope you enjoy!  
**SinicallyDisturbed: **I can most certainly sympathize with Meryl getting locked in a closet---I mean, what kind of dunderhead shuts a closet door without checking to see if it's locked first? ahem.  
**ReadingWhiz89: **I can DEFINATELY sympathize with school taking over life. It's like the blob. I have that sinking sensation right now, after you've realized that you don't have your book or notes with you and there's a ginormous test the next day. On an entirely different note, what Vash did 18 years ago will be revealed rather soon.  
**DragonJenna: **Thanks! I'm SO glad Knives is creepy. It's too bad you read the story just before I got lazy and went on hiatus :p.  
**Feral Panda Chick**: Whee! A pendergroupie! It's so great to meet other fans of the arcane Aloysius Pendergast. I myself have bee suffering withdrawals after Dance of Death. Here's the big question that divides most of the readers at Preston and Child's EZ Boards: Are you a Margo fan or a Nora fan? Keep in touch!  
**Peridot3783: **All secrets soon to be revealed! (I feel like a tabloid when I say that. Odd...) As for Knives' next move, I must confess that I'm as much in the dark about that as you are. As for Daemonicola...well, I think his agenda is slightly different from Knives'. There's a loyalty issue going on here. Anyway, with only a little further ado, here is chapter no. 7, with much angst and screaming and Vash's first real skirmish with the re-born GHG. Enjoy!

* * *

Meryl touched Vash's hand with uncharacteristic concern, but he jerked away and stared at her for a moment, panic-stricken, as though he'd forgotten who she was. His eyes were wide with terror, his face tightly drawn. Then his demeanor relaxed, and Meryl found herself thinking that her friend, or whatever he was to her, had never looked more ill or tired than he did then, with a ghastly pall beneath the glow of the fluorescent lights.

"Vash?" She asked, her stomach beginning to knot. Something was wrong.

Vash stood up suddenly, his retro-styled chair tipping over with a clatter on the polished linoleum floors. His powerful frame was tensed, each well-developed muscle pulled taut. For a moment, Meryl thought he was going to run—_where_, she didn't know, but she quickly rose to her feet, prepared to drag him back to his seat.

But Vash didn't run. He remained firmly, almost stubbornly, rooted to the spot, eyes darting around the diner with a fierce hatred that startled the insurance girls. "Vash..." Meryl tried warily.

"He's here," Vash said, and his voice sounded hoarse and warped with rage.

"Vash, who's here?" Meryl said in a coaxing, mild voice; the same voice she might use to soothe an injured bird.

"Him, that demon—that FREAK!" His hand fisted tightly; frightened, Meryl realized that if the humanoid typhoon decided to start a bar brawl right here, right now, she would be powerless to stop him. His frame was nearly vibrating with an intense, suffusing anger. His face had blanched, and his balled fists were trembling.

"Vash," she said desperately, taking on a pleading tone. "Think about this—you're tired, you're hungry. You just aren't thinking right. Somebody's playing a prank on you, or—"

"Two people are _dead, Meryl!_" Vash said in short, shallow breaths, his voice becoming louder. "This isn't a goddamn game anymore." He turned his flashing turquoise eyes on her, face wrung like a twisted Halloween mask. "It's a war." He growled out through meshed teeth. "A war..." He repeated to himself, nodding.

"Maybe you should sit—"

"I DON'T WANT TO SIT!" He thundered, kicking the cast-iron chair away like a toy. The chair skittered across the floor, spinning like a top. "_He _is here, I can tell. Where are you, you sick piece of shit!" He yelled, glaring down the patrons of the diner. "Coward! I have a challenge for you," he cried, his hand darting into his holster and drawing the revolver smoothly. There was a collective gasp in the eatery.

"Vash!" Meryl warned. She fingered the derringers in her cape, unwilling to believe that the gunman could hurt anyone. Clearly, something was different about him—she'd noticed that from the start. He was under considerable stress. That, combined with starvation and fatigue...well, that was enough to knock anyone off his rocker for a little bit. But still...that didn't mean he would hurt anyone. Vash would never, ever, _ever— _

A gunshot scattered her thoughts. Meryl stared, wide-eyed, at the now-smoking gun in Vash's black-gloved hand. "Vash..." She said in a soft, disbelieving whisper. Something was wrong, wrong, wrong.

"Come on, who was it this time? Rene? Daemonicola? Someone new?"

_Who's he talking to? _Meryl wondered, unsnapped a holster and sliding out a one-shot derringer.

"Well, I've got a message for Knives, too," Vash said in a soft whisper. He leveled the revolver again, and before the short insurance girl could stop him, he pointed the gun at a random man's head and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Rene, sitting in a wrought-iron filigreed chair just outside the diner, took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke, watching it rise in coils and wisps into the dark, cold sky. He listened to the commotion inside passively, enjoying the taste of the nicotine. He could hear Vash the Stampede's voice roaring "_I don't want to sit!_", followed by a monstrous crash. The voice continued, a wavering treble, _" He is here, I can tell. Where are you, you sick piece of shit! Coward! I have a challenge for you!" _Then a sharp inhalation from the unlucky diners. Curiosity piqued, Rene cast a clandestine glance into the eatery. The gunman's back was to him, but Rene could clearly make out the gleaming silver pistol gripped in his hand. He smiled.

He heard a lower, feminine murmur—the black-haired girl, he presumed. Then it came. There was no doubt about it, no mistaking the familiar, sharp retort of the gun and the near-silent whistle of the bullet. Rene even thought he could smell a trace of gunpowder. There was a short scream from inside, and a hysterical _"Oh my God, he shot a man!"_ Rene peeked through the open doorway again; the typhoon was standing rigidly, smoking gun clutched in his hand. He hadn't moved.

Rene touched the slender gold pen gently, spoke in his rasping laconic manner: "It is done, sir." The pen was, of course, lost technology. A transmitter, actually—it functioned as a two-way radio. There was a short burst of static, then Knives cold voice. It still sent a shudder up and down the Gung-ho gun's spine, contracting his skin.

"Are you certain?"

Rene paused to inhale deeply on the cigarette, and his words came out in a rush of smoke. "I heard the gunshot; there's no mistake."

Rene could almost hear Knives' cruel smile. "Very good. Are the others prepared for stage two of the operation?"

"Everyone's set and in order, sir. Waiting for the command."

"Can Daemonicola's loyalty be trusted?" The edges of Knives words were clipped and concise: if Rene wasn't careful, Knives would hang him with his own words.

"Implicitly." He spoke into the transmitter.

"Excellent," Knives replied.

"Is that all?" Rene said in an even, almost bored voice.

Knives gave a low, malignant laugh. "That's all...for now."

There was a series of clicks, then more static. The conversation was over. Rene stayed in the chair for a few long minutes, smoking the stub of his cigarette and staring at the half-shrouded moon. He finished the fag and flicked his long, spider-like fingers, sending the smoldering butt careening into the sand. Then he stood, smoothing back dull black hair with one bony hand. The Gung-ho gun straightened his loose suit, and began walking toward the east, leaving behind only narrow, light footsteps in the dry sand. Then a light breeze blew in, erasing the impressions—leaving behind only memories.

* * *

Meryl was in shock. She was rooted to the spot. Speechless, numb. She couldn't move. She couldn't stop Vash from raising the lambent revolver and tightening his finger over the trigger. In her mind, she could only think how badly she'd misjudged her friend—how near to the edge he must have been just to fire that gun and end a man's life. Vaguely, she could hear someone shouting "Oh my God, he shot a man!" But she couldn't seem to bring the words and the deed in conjunction with Vash.

She stared with disbelief at Vash, then slowly, _slowly _allowed herself to look at the man Vash had shot. And gasped.

The man was not dead. He wasn't lying in an ever-widening pool of blood on the floor. In fact, he wasn't hurt at all. He was smiling. She blinked in consternation as the man stood with a slow, catlike grace and stooped. He picked a black felt hat off the floor, dusted it off, and raised it to the light. There was a neat little bullet hole through the top.

"What a shame," the man said with a curious smile. He poked one finger through the bullet hole, glanced up at Vash. "You've ruined my hat."

"Bastard," Vash choked out. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his lips drawn back in a silent snarl.

Meryl looked more closely at the man Vash had "shot", taking in the salient features: olive complexion, silver-platinum eyes, a long, white scar down the side of his face. He was young, oddly beautiful, and athletically muscled. A tight black long-sleeve shit and slacks contrasted with his unusual coloring. She was curious about this white-haired man who moved with the grace and power of a lion. What had he done to Vash?

"Did Knives send you?" Vash asked depravedly.

Daemonically smiled, baring straight white teeth. "Naturally."

"What do you want from me?" Vash half-cried, half-sobbed.

Daemonicola's smile disappeared suddenly as he raised a large, matte black gun that Meryl hadn't noticed before. "Haven't you figured it out yet, Vash? I just want to play a game."

And he fired.

Vash threw himself to the ground instinctively, but something felt wrong. Off, somehow. He could usually judge the trajectory of the bullets based on the position of the gun. But Daemonicola's gun had not been aimed directly at Vash. It was angled somehow to the left...Vash felt a cold, clammy fear. "Milly!" He cried with sudden, cold, lucid realization. The insurance girl was too far away for him to protect and too slow to act on his warning. Vash grimly brought his firearm up and aimed with quick precision. He only had one shot... The gun barked, bucked in his hands. The bullet exploded from the chamber, hummed through the air at just the right angle. There was a harsh scrape of metal-on-metal, and the two slugs collided, melded, fell to the floor as one. Vash pushed a damp lock of blond hair out of his eyes with a trembling hand. His muscles were jerking spasmodically, nerves frayed from the close brush. He pushed himself to his feet slowly and deliberately, feeling the old Vash the Stampede beginning to return. "You," he said shakily. His voice was low, steely, and cold. "I played by your rules," he said in that same oddly _dead _tone. The voice was quiet but hard-edged, and it demanded the attention of everyone in the diner. "I played along with your sick joke." Again, the lack of emotion frightened Meryl. "And you. You told me that I," he raised his gun here, an unearthly rage lurking beneath his features, "WOULD NOT HAVE TO FACE THE CONSEQUENCES!" He roared. "You broke the rules first, you son-of-a-bitch."

Meryl's breath caught in her throat. She had never seen him so fully incensed. The sound of legato gunfire emphasized his threat, but Daemonicola was already out of the line of fire. He tugged down the brim of his ruined hat. "Too hasty," he said in a cheerful tone. A smile hooked his lip upward into a cruel leer. "My turn."

He made a simple rolling gesture with his hand, and opened his palm to reveal a small, pill-like capsule. Daemonicola flicked his wrist and the pill exploded into a cloud of dark smoke. "On Earth, they had marine creatures called octopuses, who escaped in a cloud of ink." Whispered Daemonicola's voice in Vash ear. Vash whirled batting the thick air aside with a hand. But the Gung-ho gun was gone...or at least hidden in the sheet of fog. Vash considered firing his gun, but dismissed it immediately. He couldn't see a thing, and there were too many innocents around. Meryl and Milly, most of all.

"I, however, have no intention of escaping." The Gung-ho gun's smooth, mellifluous voice murmured.

"What the hell are you?" Vash asked, squinting. The fog had begun to sting his eyes.

"An illusionist."

_If I can just keep him talking..._ Vash thought. "Are you working with Rene the Necromancer?" Vash asked.

As if sensing Vash's intention, Daemonicola fell silent. The typhoon cursed quietly. "Milly?" He asked, raising his voice. "Meryl?"

"Here, Vash. Both of us." Meryl responded immediately, her voice strong.

"Get out." Vash ordered.

"And leave you here alone? You're a liability."

"This is not a time for duty! Get out of here!"

He blinked rubbing his eyes, which had begun to burn. The first blow came before he realized what was happening. He felt only the faintest rush of air preceding the attack, then a sharp pain exploded in his arm. He inhaled sharply, cradling the injury close to his chest. He peered down at the forearm, found a long laceration welling with red-black blood, and hissed. He squinted, trying so hard to see through the fog that a headache preyed on the edges of his mind.

The haze was impenetrable.

He felt a second rush of air and recognized it, throwing himself backward. The blade whizzed past, nicking his chest. Vash scrambled to his feet, holstering his gun hesitantly. It wouldn't help if he couldn't see. He had to keep moving. Feeling foolish, Vash ran, tumbled, and somersaulted through the thick smoke, dodging left and right through the seemingly endless white haze. The pain in his arm worsened. Panting, Vash rolled sideways, scrambled to his feet, and darted forward, clutching his wounded right arm all the while. He slammed full-tilt into a dining table and cursed loudly, momentarily caught. That was all the Gung-ho gun needed. Daemonicola's honed blade came slashing through the thick air, catching Vash in the shoulder. Vash threw his arm backward, felt it connect with Daemonicola; but the next minute the Gung-ho gun was gone, and Vash was grappling with the air.

Vash set off on his invisible obstacle course again, hurtling through the eatery, stumbled over chairs and the occasional unfortunate customer. He felt his breathing become more labored and stopped to catch his ragged, heavy breath. _Swish! _He could _hear _the blade this time, arcing through the air. It buried itself in the sinew of his calf and he shouted in pain. Unable to run, Vash waved a hand blindly through the air. _How can he find me? _Vash wondered frantically. _How can he tell me apart from the other diners? It's like...like he can _see. Vash paused, feeling his mind working, whittling away at something. He was a step away from a revelation when he heard the blade, felt the rush of air. Vash threw himself to the left, heard the blade sink into the linoleum floors with a wooden _thok!_ No more games now: Daemonicola was aiming to kill.

He tried to salvage his train of thought, tried to regain that epiphany. Daemonicola had some way of moving through the fog, of seeing. Vash remembered vaguely the puzzles that came on the cereal boxes on the SEEDS ship. Cereal, Rem explained, went stale, but it was still good to eat for a long time, which is why it was packed on the spaceship. Some boxes had patches of red and white that resembled static. Thin blue ink was barely visible behind the red-and-white boxes which read something. They were impossible to decipher without a "key"—a simple piece of colored plastic that revealed the ink beneath the puzzles. _Maybe the principal is the same,_ Vash premised, _and all that I need to see through the fog...is a key_. He unhooked his topaz sunglasses from his dress shirt pocket and slipped them on. When the fog didn't immediately dissipate, Vash felt a sinking in his gut. He blinked, realized that the burning in his eyes had subsided. There was a blur in the periphery of his vision and Vash darted right mindlessly. He watched the knife arc through the air, wielded by some unseen hand, and recoil. _Well, _he thought glumly, _it was worth a shot_. _At least I avoided the knife that time. _Then he blinked and shook himself.

_I avoided it that time. Because I saw it._ The flashing knife was easier to catch sight of with the sunglasses on. Vash pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger, eyebrows knitting. He took out his gun, cocked it. Now he had his edge. He heard the whistle of the blade, aimed his pistol and squeezed off a round. There was a hiss—almost catlike, Vash reflected—and the knife skittered across the floor. Vash didn't wait for the echo of the gunshot to wear itself out before he launched himself forward into the abyss. The haze was claustrophobic, hot, and itchy. He needed to get out. Vash stumbled blindly in search of the exit, groping with his hands. "Hello?" He called tentatively into the ever-thickening fog. "Hello?" He said, louder. He coughed into his fist, feeling dizzy. "Hello?" Panic began to bubble in his chest, constricting his lungs. "Is anyone there!" He called, fear hemming the consonants of his words. He stumbled tripped, cradling his forearm.

"Figures." Vash's head shot up. He recognized that no-nonsense, satirical voice. There was no mistaking it—

"Meryl?"

He felt the insurance girl's slender, small hands on his arm, helping him up, guiding him.

"But I told you to get out," Vash said weakly.

Meryl snorted. "Damn good thing I don't value your advice, huh?" She said wryly, and he could almost hear the smile in her voice.

"Daemonicola is still here," he gasped.

"Shut up, broom-head," she said mildly. "The gas is bad for your lungs."

"Are you asking me to stop breathing?" He joked. He knew Meryl would be rolling her eyes about now. "Meryl?" He panted. "Why isn't the gas affecting you?"

"Daemonicola isn't the only illusionist," Meryl said cryptically. "Now do I have to gag you, or what?"

Vash smiled, leaning heavily on the delicate woman. He was having difficulty focusing his thoughts, so he put his energy into placing one foot in front of the other. Finally he felt a draft on his face. He sat down, racked with coughs.

"Why are you wearing sunglasses?"

"Huh?" Vash slipped off the glasses with a sheepish grin and folded them. "I thought it might help with the smoke," he said, and coughed.

Meryl shrugged. "It was the right idea."

"What do you mean?" Vash asked, craning his neck up at her.

"I _mean_ Daemonicola was probably equipped for his pranks," Meryl said, seating herself beside Vash on the ground. She hugged her knees to her chest. "I'm almost certain he was using a night-vision goggles/gas mask mix to get around."

"_Almost _positive?" Vash queried. "And here I thought you knew everything."

Meryl rapped Vash upside the head. "Idiot," she muttered darkly, and Vash hid a smile.

"Well, how'd you get around then?" Vash demanded, appraising the ebon-haired sylph. "Unless you're packing night-vision goggles/gas masks that I don't know about."

Meryl rolled her eyes, tugged on a coarse rag that was tied around her neck. "I used a rag as a breathing filter. Then she waved the frayed end of a rope that was clutched in her right hand. "Milly held the other end of this. Two tugs meant I'd found you and we were on our way out. Then Milly just had to reel the rope in."

Vash quirked an eyebrow. "You just find a rope and a rag lying around in the middle of that pea soup?"

"Idiot," Meryl said again. "Of course I left when you told me to—to get the necessary equipment to go back in." Her attitude sobered. "What happened in there, Vash? Why do you have a crack magician on your heels?"

"It's not important," he said quickly. Meryl narrowed her eyes.

"Someone tried to kill you, Vash," she said harshly. "And Milly. That means we're involved. What the hell aren't you telling us?"

"It's Knives."

"What about Knives?" She said exasperatedly.

"He's playing a game. Truth or dare."

"What, the little kid game? The one that pansy girls play at slumber parties? That doesn't quite match up with what we saw here tonight."

"It's a very warped version of the game," Vash said quietly. "It's already claimed at least two lives."

"Why didn't you _tell_ someone?"

"There were rules."

"Rules?"

"Listen, I don't want to talk about it. Just forget about it." He said. His chest ached when he remembered Taylor Kathan, asleep in a blood-soaked bed, her russet-colored hair spilling out over the once-white bedspread.

"But—"

"Dammit, Meryl, just let it go!" He cried.

A bewildered look crossed Meryl's face. Then she looked away, knees still drawn up to her chest. She was silent for a long time. Then she stood and smoothed her button-down, too-baggy shirt which hung loosely from her delicate frame; it was unbuttoned to reveal the elegant lines of her neck and the curves of her clavicle. Something about her was a little different, Vash realized at once. Maybe it was her flapper-style hair, worn slightly longer than he remembered. Or maybe it was the expression in her violet eyes—half-cynical, half-sorrowful. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the change only served to remind him of the difference between the stuffy bitchy Meryl who had walked out of his life a little over a year ago and the cynical bitchy Meryl who had walked in just yesterday.

"You should get those tended to," Meryl said stiffly, nodding to his forearm and his calf.

"Like you actually care," he said bitterly. Okay, so that had come out a bit more childishly than he intended...

"Of course I care. If you bleed to death I won't have the satisfaction of shooting you myself." She turned on her heel, cape swishing dramatically. The moonlight made her white suit glow, and Vash watched her angelic figure recede into the blackness. He got to his feet, limping after her, keeping on wary eye set on the diner. He could already hear the wail of the sirens on their way, see the flashing lights of ambulances. The diners, he surmised, would live. He was worried about Daemonicola, though. Not _for _the Gung-ho gun, but _about_ him. He had no idea how badly he'd injured the demon in their fight—but he was certain the man had survived. He was certain Daemonicola would wake up, heal, and come after Vash again. But he couldn't go back into that fog, couldn't bring himself to. Not that soundless, sightless thick mist, with no bottoms or sides...he couldn't go back in that choking junk any more than he could fight Daemonicola, injured as he was.

_No_, he thought, limping toward the hotel. _All I can do is wait. And plan. _

The image of Daemonicola bent over Taylor Kathan's Titian head, a smile on his evilly-curved lips, swam into view. _Next time, _he thought,_ he'll fight on my terms. _

His fingers, slick with his own blood, brushed the cold stock of his gun. _And I'll make sure Daemonicola the Lion does not wake up. _

A cold northerly wind swept through the barren streets of Byrnes, scattering trash and spent cigarette butts. The wind tangled through Vash's loose shirt, caused it to billow and flap out behind him as he stood facing the bitter wind. He lifted his face to the moon, his lips parting as he made himself a silent promise:

_Not—ever—again._


	8. Playing for Keeps

A/N: Don't look at me. I thought this storywas dead, too. But SiN bribed me, so I agreed to finish chapter eight. We're now haggling overfuture chapters. The problem: I've forgotten whatwas going to happen next, and I lost my chapter outlines, so if"playing forkeeps" is choppy or doesn'tmake sense,I apologize profusely.  
**Renleek: **Wow. All the encouragement was really helpful in writing this chapter, and I even included some Knives-perspective for you. I promise more romance and suspense in the future!  
**roxworld: **thanks! Will Vash survive? I hope so. He's so darn cute.  
**SiN: **Okay, I held up my end of the deal. Any dissatisfaction on your part is not my fault. Now that HV had better be done by August twelfth or I'll sic Pepper on you.  
**Feral Panda Chick: **Thanks for lending me the muses. They helped! And on the matter of the Elite Preston and Child, well...ever since The Book of the Dead,I've liked Margo and Nora pretty equally.  
**ReadingWhiz89:** Is it just me, or are my updates getting farther and farther apart:P Here's a bit of Knives; I hope you like it! And many thanks for your reviews.

**

* * *

**

Playing for **Keeps**

The sixty-second door in the luxury hotel chain on 5th Avenue hinged open on tarnished brass pintles, rasping slightly in the charged air. Meryl Stryfe, Bernardelli insurance agent and disaster investigator, slipped inside on light feet, carefully skirting the floorboards that she knew would creak. She reached behind her with her left hand, carefully cradling a brown paper shopping bag in her right, and closed the door. Her forehead dimpled disapprovingly as the door let out a muted moan, and she looked up to make sure that her charge had not awakened.

Vash the Stampede was sitting on the nearest of the two queen-size beds, hugging his knees to his chest beneath the paisley comforter and staring at her with boyishly curious eyes. They were not the same eyes that she'd seen last night: hollow, beaten, depraved. These were the eyes she'd fallen in love with.

Already-failing afternoon light glinted off the day-old stubble fringing his cheeks and highlighted his blond hair, bringing a blush of color to his too-pale face. The sudden surge of heat spreading through her belly and the way her stomach knotted itself without her permission brought back memories that she hadn't steeled herself for, and she took a longer time than necessary while pocketing the keys and adjusting the crackling bag in her hands. Meryl set the bag down on a reading desk and wiped her hands on her skirt before meeting his stare.

"How do you feel?" She asked, her voice edged with impatience to balance out the tenderness of the words.

"Good," he said, nodding. There was a hint of surprise in his voice, as if this news came as a shock, even to him. He pointed to an empty box on the coffee table. "Thanks for the donuts."

Meryl shrugged, upending the bag. Medical tape, bandages, antibacterial cream and some smaller swabs and bottles fell out, rolling to a stop on the lacquered desktop. "Milly bought them," she said breezily, choosing not to mention that she had given Milly both the money and the incentive to visit the bakery on the corner of West and Fifth Streets.

Meryl sifted through the medical supplies, plucking a few off the table. "Take off your shirt," she said absently, picking up a packet of rubbing alcohol wipes and examining it.

She could almost hear the smile creeping across Vash's face behind her. "My, my, Meryl! It hasn't even been two days and you're already asking for favors."

A prick of irritation welled inside her and she let both her hands fall heavily to the table. Then an evil idea tugged at her mind. _'Well,' _Meryl thought slyly, _'two can play this game'_. She turned around, her face a mask of seriousness. "Oh, Vash," she breathed. "I've thought about this moment day and night. The way you smell, the way you look. I just need to see you..._all _of you." She finished in a dulcet whisper. "And you know I play fair. Tit for tat."

Vash blanched. "Excuse me?"

Meryl threw a ball of gauze at his head. "You don't have to look so mortified, Vash. I'm only kidding," she laughed.

The gunman's face relaxed in relief. A little too much relief, Meryl thought peevishly. "I need to see the cut on your forearm," she explained to him, seating herself at the edge of the bed and dumping the bandages into a pile between Vash and herself. She pointed the reel of tape at him, business-like. "The shirt's coming off."

Vash began unfastening the buttons of his cotton shirt. The buttons were small, and his fingers felt unusually large and clumsy as he fumbled with them. Meryl reached over, softly brushing the side of his face with the back of her hand.

"Did you get this checked?" She asked, frowning.

"Huh?" Vash almost jumped at her faint touch.

"You have a bruise on your temple. Didn't someone check you for head injuries?" Meryl ran her fingers through his hair, gently probing for bumps or tender spots, her fingertips tangling themselves in his unruly locks.

Vash shook his head. "No."

"God, you really are incompetent, aren't you?" Meryl said, rolling her eyes upwards in a silent appeal to heaven. The fingertips reached the nape of his neck, tickling the gold baby-hairs; Vash shuddered, clamping his hand tightly over hers.

"What?" Meryl asked with the barest hint of concern. "Does it hurt here?"

Pink tinged Vash's cheeks. "No," he repeated softly.

Meryl froze, suddenly aware of their proximity. She snatched her hand back, turning her attention to the gauze patches so he wouldn't catch her expression. "You'll live." She asserted. "Let me see your arm."

He shrugged out of his shirt and held out his forearm, rolling it so that she could inspect the gash. Meryl tore off the top of a wipe and shook it open; Vash flinched as flecks of cold rubbing alcohol landed on his skin. Meryl swabbed dirt and blood from the cut gingerly, wincing as she heard his sharp intake of breath.

Vash cleared his throat. "What's the prognosis, doctor?" He asked playfully.

Meryl balled the used wipe and tossed it into the wastebasket, rummaged for a bandage. "Well, it's—hold this here, will you?" she said, placing his hand on the gauze pad and pressing it there firmly. "It's a superficial cut," she continued. She paused, using her teeth to bite off a piece of tape. "It'll twinge, but the truth is, it's already starting to scab." Meryl taped the gauze to his arm and leaned back to study her handiwork. "My God, why didn't you tell me about your shoulder?" She clucked her tongue thoughtfully. "Should have gotten more stuff."

"What happened to your earrings?" Vash asked abruptly.

"Huh?" Meryl touched her earlobe lightly. "Oh, that. I lost them, I guess. It doesn't matter—they were old, anyway."

"I liked them," he insisted.

Meryl didn't reply. Vash watched her pick up another packet of wipes, this time rolling it in her hands to warm it up before she ripped the top off. She rose onto her knees, leaning over him to reach his shoulder. Her face was inches away from his, and he could smell her unique perfume of Arabica, ink, and vanilla sugar. He looked away.

"How bad is it?" Meryl asked at last, her voice tenuous.

"My shoulder? Not bad," Vash said cheerfully. "The arm is worse."

"No," Meryl clarified, rocking back on her heels. "The game. Or the challenge. Or whatever." All traces of joking had left her face, her eyes, the curve of her lips. She dropped her eyes to the medical supplies once again, carefully avoiding his heated gaze.

Vash lookedout the window at the panorama of amber sunshine, sand, and white buildings, unsure of how to answer her question.

"I guess what I mean to ask," Meryl continued, and he could hear the papery _ksssh_ of the gauze package tearing, "is if it's worse than LR." The butterfly-soft feel of the gauze brushed against his shoulder. "Hold," she ordered him. He reached up with his right hand, holding the gauze in place.

"It's worse," he said simply. Meryl looked up at him in astonishment, though Vash couldn't be sure if she was shocked by what he'd said, or by the fact that he'd spoken at all. Her hand slipped on the tape dispenser, twisting the tape, and she cursed. She tore the now-useless piece away, prying it off her fingers and rolling it into a ball. Vash noticed with shock that her hands were shaking.

"Meryl," he began, but she cut him off angrily.

"Why didn't you tell us earlier?"

"I was afraid—"

"Afraid of what? Getting us involved? What, did you think that if you never spoke to us again Knives would leave us alone?"

"No, I—"

"If you had _told _us we could have helped! I don't know _how_, but it's better than putting yourself through this alone!" Now the tremors had snuck into her voice, too, and Vash realized for the first time just how upset she was.

"That's not why—I–I couldn't."

"Oh, what kind of an excuse is that?" Meryl said tersely, leaning forward to tape the gauze down. Vash noticed that, in spite of her rage, her touch was still gentle. "Knivessentme that telegram. He could do it,for God's sake, but you couldn't?"

"No, I was afraid—"

"Afraid?" She scoffed. "Of _what?_"

"Of you!" Vash finished, the words sounding harder than he'd meant them to. He sighed. "I was afraid of what you'd say, or worse: I was afraid you wouldn't say anything at all."

He could feel her convulsions through her hands as she worked around his cuts and glanced up; he hadn't meant to make her cry. His look of contrite worry was quickly replaced with one of puzzlement.

She was laughing. Not loudly or boisterously—but a silent, exasperated laugh that a mother might give to a silly child.

"Meryl?"

"Vash...you're such an idiot." She smoothed the edges of the tape down.

Vash didn't reply, and Meryl slid off the bed, crushing used paper and bits of tape into her palms.

"I almost forgot," she said. "Where's that cut on your leg?"

Vash thought for a moment, then smiled a slow, crooked smile. "Here," he lied, gesturing to the inside of his upper thigh.

Meryl's eyebrows shot up, and she was acutely aware of the heat rushing to her face. "You're on your own with that one," she said, tossing the fistfuls of trash into the wastebasket and rubbing her hands together to peel away stubborn bits of adhesive. She made a motion toward the door, but Vash's voice stopped her.

"Meryl."

She turned her head slightly, indicating she was listening.

"Earlier—that thing with the shirt—you were...kidding, right?"

Meryl made a face. "Duh."

"Oh, yeah, that's what I thought," he said, flashing a bashful, empty grin.

Meryl slipped through the door and into the hallway, shaking her head. From his vantage point on the bed, he never saw her fond smile as she whispered, "idiot."

* * *

Smoke curled from the tip of the lit fag like a gauzy ribbon, corkscrewing and twisty-turning, as though it had a mind of its own. The smoke formed a filmy haze that hung like a shroud over the smoker's face, obscuring the flat eyes; the waxy complexion; the bloodless lips. Skeletal white fingers flicked the butt onto the stainless steel floor, then fluttered up to the neck, smoothing the black tie with quick, jerky movements.

Knives watched the smoke coiling up from Rene's spent cigarette butt with distaste, leaning forward in his chair. Humans were always finding new ways to poison themselves, he mused, his lips hitching up in a sneer. He lowered his eyes to the black revolver in his hands: it had taken him a full year to finish the firearm, a perfect replica of the"sister gun" Vash had claimed after the showdown. Knives shined the gun's barrel with a polishing rag, his hands making slow, even circles over the steel. "Report," he ordered brusquely.

Rene made an informal half-bow, planting his hands on the white table between Knives and himself. "Milly Thompson and Meryl Stryfe have rejoined Vash the Stampede," he said huskily. "Neither were injured in the row with Daemonicola."

"And Vash?" Knives asked, popping the chamber open and counting the bullets. _One, two, three, four, five, six_.

"Sustained minor injuries. He's still mobile."

"Good," Knives smiled disarmingly. "No cat enjoys playing with a crippled mouse."

Rene hesitated a moment, then asked: "Your orders?"

Knives snapped the safety off, enjoying the metallic _clack_ as it echoed in the large room. He wrapped the polishing rag around the stock, gingerly set it aside. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small yellow envelope between his index and middle fingers. Knives held the envelope out for Rene's inspection.

The Gung-ho Gun's gaze flickered down to the paper. A spark of something flared in his dark irises, and he slid the it from Knives' hand with a feline interest. Rene slipped his forefinger under the flap of the envelope and tore the top open, tapping the contents out into his palm. He looked up. "I don't understand."

"Keep them with you for now. They will come into play," Knives said as he picked up his gun again, the rag slipping off and falling weightlessly onto the table. "They belong to our _real _target."

Rene looked again at the long, slender gold earrings in his palm before his quick hands darted to the folds of his blazer, and the envelope's contents disappeared, swallowed by one of the overlarge pockets.

"As you wish."


	9. Deadline

**A/N:** Okay! I'm going to do it! I'll finish the story. I get these spurts every once in awhile. Basically, it's whenever I go to take down Truth or Dare officially. And then I start reading the reviews, just for the heck of it, I tell myself. I'll just read them for the heck of it. And then I find myself smiling because you guys are so darn nice, and I think: "How long would it take, really, to push out another chapter, if I didn't edit it or anything?" And then I get sucked into the long, tortuous path of writing another chapter on a story that's come painfully close to dereliction multiple times. So here it is! The latest chapter! I'll undoubtedly get sidetracked and wander back in another eleven months or so and put up another one, maybe, if it doesn't get trashed first.  
**Renleek**: Have I told you I love you lately? No? Well, I do. You have to be one of the best reviewers ever. Seriously, 40 of the reason I wrote this chapter was because of you.  
**ReadingWhiz89:** Prepare to be surprised again! I know _I _am. I expected this to be on permanent hiatus. I started this chapter off with evil Knives just for you, and the beginning of the next chapter (which has, ironically, been written for over a year) also starts with Knives! Thanks so much for your support and uh...I'll work on the "update more often" thing.  
**SiN:** Well, you'll be surprised. You didn't even have to bribe me this time. Hope you had fun on your camping ship with your smelly fish and your porty pottys and your lack of showers. Welcome home!  
**Aku:** Thanks! I hope you like this one. I hope you _read_ this one, considering how it's been um...a year?...since my last update.  
**Rain:** You give very sound advice. I decided to shorten the story, as you suggested, though it will still be ungodly-long by the time I finish it. If that happens. I'll be eighty or something. I'm really glad you like it so far, though!  
**DrowningOphelia :** Wow. That was really nice. Thanks. The update came. Late, but not never. Maybe I'll get cracking on the next chapter...it's funny, how much my style's changed since I started this story. I hope you enjoy "Deadline"!

* * *

**WARNING: readers may be seriously displeased with the shortness and abruptness of this chapter. It's rather almost painful.**

Knives was sitting on the edge of the bed when Rene knocked on the open doorjamb. Just sitting there, his features as cold and hard and beautiful as if they'd been cast in porcelain and kiln-fired. He face was upturned, toward the full moon, the white light delicate and bright on his profile and on the tips of his cheekbones. Rene had seen pictures of a statue once, a Grecian statue called "The Lizard Killer." That's what Knives reminded him of when he sat on the edge of his bed like that, torso bare and muscles taut—The Lizard Killer.

But perspiration beaded that smooth, gypsum skin, belying the marble facade, and strands of damp hair the color of white sand clung to his forehead and his cheeks. And in that sweat, Rene saw evidence of another nightmare. Another sleepless night. Another spell of darkness paralyzed by the pain of scars that had healed but not yet disappeared.

"My lord." Rene said.

Knives didn't respond, not at first. Rene could see him swallow, Adam's apple bobbing, long white eyelashes flickering closed, then open again. The heat of the summer was heavy, the kind that made Rene feel like he was choking in tepid water, and a sheen of sweat sugarcoated his skin, made his dress shirt stick to his back. After an interminable silence, he heard Knives' voice—wintry, lilting, authoritative. "The girl."

Rene wiped the back of his neck with his sleeve, running his hands through lank hair. "The target, you mean?"

Knives turned to look at Rene, one half of his face bright and glowing in the moonlight, the other black and unlit in the shadows. There was something chilling in the dichotomy, something so symbolical of the battle between good and evil this man had fought once—a battle, Rene suspected, that Knives _still _fought sometimes, on nights like these. "Yes," he said. "The girl, the target." He turned back to the window, the latticework on the pane casting two long, linear, crisscrossed shadows across his shoulder. "Meryl," he said quietly, to himself.

"What about her, my lord?"

Knives inhaled deeply through his nose, chest rising. His full lips stuck together, just a little, when he spoke. One terrible, little word that had the power to change four lives forever:

"Now."

* * *

It had its perks. 

It was windswept, and little breezes would pick up pieces of trash—shopping bags, coffee cups, cigarette butts—and carry them a ways. It would send them skittering across blacktop that was scarred and ruptured, with knotty weeds tangling up through the cracks in the tarmac, before they'd hit a building or a fence. Then the litter would flutter a bit, batting against the wall the way a moth's wings bat up against a closed window. And then the breeze would die down and the trash would fall back to the hot pavement, where it would stay until the next zephyr came along.

It smelt. The smell wasn't overpowering, but it was obvious and unpleasant. It was that ammonia smell, that piss-and-vinegar, three-day-old-vodka smell. And it never seemed to go away, no matter how much cologne Vash dabbed beneath his chin.

It was old. Derelict. Everything seemed to be infected with rust or weeds or House of Usher-type fractures.

And yet, the city had its perks. Like now, Vash thought as he closed his eyes and listened to the smack jazz on the streets. The clouds lowering in the sky were almost pleasant in contrast to the ugliness of the cityscape. There were birds of some type way up on the steel rafters of the unfinished building skeleton above him, their talons making clicking sounds against the metal. The construction site where he'd stopped to eat his donuts was lovely, in its own right, he supposed.

And it gave him a chance to think. To process what it meant to be hot and cold at the same time; to muse over why his heartbeat had doubled when Meryl had touched his face. Why his lips went dry when she looked at him. Why he was feeling nauseated and exhilarated at the same time, unable to look away when she way in the room, unable to think because he was so consumed with _feeling. _The symptoms were all there. What he couldn't figure out was _why. _

Vash had decided to get rid of those troublesome emotions two years ago, when they'd both willfully made a mistake that had cost them their friendship. When he'd broken her heart. When she'd written that letter. And now they were all back, the crummy things, and twice over.

"Mr. Vash, sir?"

Vash cracked his eyes open. A little boy was standing in front of him, a little child wearing a pageboy hat and short slacks that showed off dirty little knees and scuffed-up bowling shoes. His thumbs were looped around his suspenders, and he rocked back and forth on the heels of his scuffed-up shoes in a nervous idiosyncrasy.

"Hey, there," said Vash, sitting up with what felt like the first easy smile he'd managed in years. Then he saw something in the boy's plump hand, something that made his smile go cold and his stomach turn into a stone. It was a paper. A yellow paper envelope without any markings on it at all. "What's that in your hand?" He asked as casually as he could manage around the knot that had tightened in his throat.

The boy gave Vash the envelope, which had five small dimples in the paper from where his five small fingers had clutched it. Vash didn't bother to look up; he didn't notice the pit-pat of scuffed bowling shoes as the boy ran down the street, ran past playground with faded hopscotch and abandoned double-dutch jump ropes. He didn't notice anything at all, except a rushing sound in his ears and the stone in his stomach and the knot that made it hard for him to swallow.

His fingers did not tremble when he tore the side of the envelope open, rattling it until a paper and something glittery fell out into the dust. Vash picked up the paper, hands steady as he unfolded the white paper and read the two, black-inked words with desperation.

Then he dropped the letter, digging into the dust between his knees, looking for the glittering thing, though he already knew what it would be. And as he held up the achingly familiar slender, gold earring, his fingers were shaking.

Oh, they were shaking.

A breeze came along and picked up the white paper with the two black-inked words, carrying it a ways. The paper skittered across the blacktop, tumbling over knotty weeds that tangled up through the cracks in the pavement. And then, all of a sudden, it hit a chain link fence. The paper fluttered frantically for awhile, until the wind died down, and then it drifted to the dirty street. Illuminated by the setting sun and the lampposts, one could just make out the words:

WHERE'S MERYL?

Another zephyr came along, and then the paper was gone.

* * *

Meryl did not like the city at all. 

It had no redeeming factors. The grit of industry clung to everything—to the windows, to the streetlamps, to the stop signs and yield signs and traffic lights. Grime clotted doorknobs and brick and rebar. And it was always windy here, and unfriendly, hostile, hot wind. There was trash everywhere, and with the trash came the slow, infiltrating smell of decay and compost. And then there was the quiet.

_God, _it was quiet.

Like now, when dusk was just about to fall. There should have been noise—the banging of shutters and doors, the shouts of children, the creak of rotten ropes as the well bucket swung in the breeze, the click of glasses and cueballs. Instead it was silent as a grave.

Meryl walked down the street, right down the middle of the street, following the broken yellow line of the median. The streetlights on both sides of the avenue were dark, all of them, but she could take care of herself. There'd be hell to pay if someone thought that this short, slender— almost boyish—woman would make an easy target. _Hell_.

Something black moved behind her.

Meryl saw it, just barely, in her peripheral vision. Something black—and big. She slid her hand inside her coat, feeling the stock of a derringer worn smooth by the patina of years and polished bright, as if it were new-minted.

Something light sounded behind her.

Meryl unbuttoned the holster with a near-silent _pop_, the sudden weight of the one-shot pistol in her hand reassuring. Familiar. Meryl turned around with molten, recited speed, bringing the gun up as she did, one eye closed. Just like when she'd been a kid and she'd practiced shooting bottles in her backyard with one eye closed, and her father had chided her. _"Both eyes open, Meryl," _he'd said, frustratedly, shifting his bulk on the bleached wood fence. _"You'll see twice as well."_

Only, the street was empty. She was alone.

Meryl hesitated before she lowered the derringer, not quite satisfied with chalking it up to nerves. Though she _hadn't_ been sleeping well lately, a certain blond gunman monopolizing her thoughts. Meryl turned around again, too stubborn to hasten her steps as darkness dropped all around her.

The scuffle to her left wasn't her nerves though, not this time. Meryl whirled, cocking the pistol. "Halt!" She cried, her own authoritative voice echoing back to her tauntingly: _halt, halt, hahahalt._

No reply. This time, though, the suffocating silence didn't fool her. She slid out another pistol, squeezing off a shot and hearing the ricochet of the bullet off the wall, the spray of brick, the tinkle of a shell falling. No cry of surprise. No shout of pain.

A miss.

The fear she felt next was unexpected, unfamiliar, and Meryl detested it. She turned on heel, hating the way the derringer in her right hand had suddenly become hot and slippery with sweat. This time, she could only sense the motion. On the right. Fast. She raised the derringer cautiously, peering into the phantasms that shifted in the shadows. "Who's there?" She asked.

The lack of reply was eery now, now that she knew for sure she wasn't alone. Finally the loneliness and the silence, the ache of travel that had settled deep in her bones and the exhaustion of too much fitful slumber overwhelmed sense. She ran. In the sides of her vision, she saw things. Streetsigns that ran together. Plays of lights. Patches of darkness. She ran.

At the end of the street, she turned a wide corner, foot catching on a lip in the asphalt. She tumbled forward. Meryl tried to catch the fall with her hands, but her right arm slipped, skinning her elbow, and her right shoulder and jaw took the brunt of the fall. She could taste the salt of gravel and the metallic blood inside her mouth, felt vague fires and pains and heat on the right side of her body. The empty derringer bounced out of her hand, though she managed to clutch onto the loaded one through some sheer dumb luck.

Still, there was no indication that she was not alone. And yet, she knew that she wasn't. She brought herself up on quivering arms, a tiny drop of blood rolling off her swelling lip and landing on the blacktop. Then another. The air smelled rotten.

She reached forward an abraded hand, fingers jittering and jumping as she tried to make them close around the empty gun she'd dropped. And then all of a sudden there was an arm helping her, picking her up.

_Vash. _It was Vash, she thought to herself with relief. But the thought was cut short as the gentle arm suddenly tightened, turning steel as it clamped around her neck and her mouth, making spots of white pop around the corners of her vision. She had few impressions before she passed out: something rough over her nose. Screaming lunge. The smell of sterile alcohol. Black. The spasmodic flex of her finger on the trigger. The ring of gunfire, as though coming from the end of a very long tunnel. A shot gone wild. Black. Aching. Color. And then, Black.

Only this time, everything _stayed_ black.

* * *

A/N: Er. Reading that, it seemed quite a bit worse than it sounded when I was writing it. Unfortunately, I no longer have to patience to sit an hour or two with my chapters and make sure they come out decent. Sorry!  
Maybe the next one will be better...  
Maybe the next one will be less than ten months away...


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